


I'll Be Seeing You

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Across the street from each other!, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Denial, Fashion & Couture, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream Parlors, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Other, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, Reunions, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Tension, Switching, They own shops!, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Mr. Zachariah Fell, purveyor of fine candies and ice cream, lives a comfortable life in spite of his hazy memories and troubling dreams. When a red-haired, handsome, and oddly familiar stranger takes over the shop across the street, Zachariah is forced to confront the possibility that he might not be the man he thought he was. In fact, he might not even be human at all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 139
Kudos: 484
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Hot Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank the wonderful [Taya Sigerson](https://tayasigerson.tumblr.com/) for her amazing work on the art for this story! Taya, you were such a pleasure to work with and I'm so thrilled with what you've done to represent Aziraphale and Crowley in my fic. They truly couldn't be cuter.
> 
> Please, please go and leave Taya some love on Tumblr on her art post! 
> 
> I would also like to thank my trusty, eagle-eyed beta Silly Goose! You always come through.

  


Mr Zachariah Fell lived at 431 Northanger Lane. It was a humble dwelling on the outskirts of London, just above his ice cream and sweets shop. Every day, he woke up at six a.m. on the dot, made his breakfast of toast with jam and tea, read the newspaper, watched the morning news, and then headed downstairs to open up at eleven. 

The ice cream and sweets shop, Mr Fell’s Sweet Treats to be precise, was a favourite haunt of the local children, who spent many afterschool hours loitering near the ice cream counter, eating inordinate amounts of candy and spinning on the stools until their parents came to collect them. Zachariah mostly didn’t mind the noise, but when he got tired of the children, he pulled the shade, locked the door, and retreated back upstairs to read or listen to his collection of Stephen Sondheim recordings. It was fair play, he figured, since he also gave quite a lot of ice cream away for free. 

If you had asked what he’d done before becoming a purveyor of fine candies and ice cream, Zachariah wouldn’t have been able to answer. In spite of his liberal business practices, he never seemed to want for money, but he had few friends, no family, and no real memory of his childhood. 

Zachariah Fell was incredibly lonely.

***

One Saturday, as he was raising the shades at the front of the shop, Zachariah noticed a buzz of activity in the vacant shop on the other side of the street. It had stood empty since the second-hand clothing shop that had previously occupied the lot had closed, leaving cracked windows and a hastily drawn “for sale” sign in the window.

Zachariah peered from underneath the shade, watching as a moving truck in front of the shop began unloading countless boxes of various sizes. He squinted through his reading glasses—which he really didn’t need but thought looked quite nifty—at the dark, lanky figure of a man who seemed to be directing the procession. He was tall and lean with fiery red hair cut short on the sides and long on top, and he was wearing a pair of black sunglasses. He was quite a figure—more dramatic a personage than their quiet street usually attracted, to be sure. He looked better suited to Camden or Soho than this unassuming corner of Hampstead. 

The man walked and gestured with grace, his hips swaying in what to Zachariah seemed a very seductive manner, as he gave his orders and observed the proceedings. Something about him was strangely familiar, which was absurd, since Zachariah had never seen the man before in his life. Probably he was remembering some be-bop singer or other whom the man resembled. He really was something to look at. 

Zachariah pulled the shade a bit too hard, and it came crashing down on his head. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” he said, struggling to right himself and the blasted shade, which he’d had trouble with before. It hung limply in the window, unfurled and useless, and Zachariah chanced another glance across the street.

The little scene in the sweets shop had attracted the man’s attention. He was staring, or at least Zachariah thought he was staring, though with the dark glasses it was impossible to say. Impulsively, Zachariah raised his hand in greeting and smiled, and the man’s face did something—it wasn’t exactly a grimace, but nor was it a smile. It was a sort of twist of lips, as though they weren’t accustomed to making the effort, but wanted to try. The man watched him for another moment, and then one of his assistants came to ask him something, and he turned away. 

Zachariah’s heart gave a little lurch, which he realised was disappointment. His reflection in the glass frowned back, and he wrinkled his nose at himself and gave his fluffy white-blond hair a pat where it had become mussed from the shade. Silly, really, to care whether he had the attention of some strange man, who was probably not even the owner of the shop. No, he had probably been hired to direct the placement of merchandise. He wouldn’t be around much longer, and in any case, Zachariah had some ice cream to make; he was running low on strawberry. 

He busied himself in the back. Making ice cream, while not demanding, was soothing to the mind. There was a proper procedure to it which was most satisfying: the heating of the milk and sugar, the addition of the eggs, the blending of the fruit or other ingredients. He liked pouring the mixture into his ice cream freezer and watching the crystals form. It was predictable; it always had the same outcome, and that was something he found he needed, like reading a book he’d read before countless times. Zachariah loved books as much as he loved ice cream. 

At a little after one, the shop bell pealed and Zachariah came to the front, where two familiar customers, Ms Odette and her partner Ms Louise, were inspecting the freezer case. 

“Oh, just get peach,” Odette was saying. “You know you always regret it when you get something else.” 

“But the lemon looks particularly yummy today.” Louise glanced from Odette to the case and then back again. 

“Why not have both?” Zachariah offered. “I’ll give you a cup with half and half; how does that sound?” 

“Oh, Mr Fell, you’re such a treasure.” 

Zachariah beamed and got to work behind the counter, listening with half an ear as the ladies gossiped. 

“And I hear he’s lived in New York. Carries American designers. What we’ll do with a shop like that on this block, I have no idea.” Odette shook her head. 

“Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon,” said Louise, taking her ice cream from Zachariah’s outstretched hand. “It’ll be good for this old place. Breathe some new life into us.” 

“We’ve got plenty of life already, haven’t we, Mr Fell?” Odette asked. “I’ll have a vanilla flake.” 

Zachariah, who was terribly interested but trying not to be, turned to get another ice cream cup. “Are you talking about the shop across the street?”

“Yes!” Odette’s deep brown eyes brightened. “It’s been let to a man called Anthony Rook. High fashion. Rock star clothes. You should see the leather! I’m surprised you didn’t notice; they’ve been at it all day.” At that point, her attention was drawn to the front of the shop, where the broken window shade provided a perfect view of the enterprise beyond. 

Zachariah gave her a sheepish smile. “I did notice a bit of commotion.” He handed over the flake. 

“And he is _quite_ the looker, if I do say so myself. I don’t even like men, and I couldn’t stop staring.” Louise leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink.

“Please, Lou, you’re old enough to be his mother.” Odette rolled her eyes and took a bite of her ice cream. 

“I may be a grouchy old lesbian, but I still appreciate beauty when I see it. What do _you_ think of him, Mr Fell?” Louise arched an eyebrow. “The two of you would be quite the pair, light and dark, yin and yang, and all that.” 

Zachariah tried, and failed, to hide his blush. These two ladies in particular seemed quite certain that he was a homosexual, and moreover that he was looking for a romantic dalliance. There had been other men mentioned and commented upon in his presence, none of them to Zachariah’s taste. He wasn’t even sure he had a taste, or if he did, what flavour it would be. He did touch himself, and when he did his thoughts searched, searched for something just out of reach, as though looking for a memory that wasn’t his own, that had never been his. 

“He’s very . . . tall,” was all he managed, blushing brighter still. 

“Oh, you do have an opinion,” Louise said, something like glee in her expression. “Maybe you should bring him a welcome gift.” 

“A welcome gift?”

“A shop-warming present,” Odette chimed in. “May I recommend this delicious vanilla flake?”

“It wouldn’t do to be unfriendly, Mr Fell,” added Louise helpfully. 

After the women finished their treats and left, Zachariah was left in his empty shop with a new, restless energy. There was still plenty of activity across the street, and he wandered over to the window again to watch. Anthony Rook. The name suited the man in black, his shocking red hair the only colorful thing about him. He went in and out of the shop, and then finally the large truck pulled away, and Zachariah realised it was half three and he hadn’t even eaten. 

He wondered if the man was hungry. 

_A little shop-warming present wouldn’t be remiss,_ he told himself. _It’s always good to be friendly with new neighbours._

Feeling slightly giddy, Zachariah went to the loo to put himself to rights. His apron was covered with strawberry, so he removed it and smoothed down his cream-coloured cardigan. His face, round and decidedly middle-aged, stared back at him in the mirror. He held his head this way, then that, trying to make himself appear distinguished, and failing. His blue eyes, at least, were quite attractive. He ran his fingers through his hopelessly fluffy hair and decided he was being ridiculous. 

Choosing which ice cream to bring was more difficult. Odette had suggested a vanilla flake, but somehow it didn’t seem right for Rook. After a few minutes of deliberation, Zachariah chose chocolate and salted caramel, garnishing it with some roasted almonds and chocolate nibs. If Rook didn’t like it, he didn’t have to eat it. 

Not wanting to wait any longer, lest he talk himself out of going at all, Zachariah fetched his keys, locked up the shop, and crossed the cobblestone street. The door to the new shop was open, and from inside, Zachariah could hear the strains of some mournful guitar. Of course, the man would like _that_ sort of music. Zachariah grit his teeth, told himself not to hold it against Rook, who certainly would have other virtuous qualities, and ventured into the darkened shop. 

Everything was in disarray—boxes and clothing racks and disassembled mannequins with no heads—but there was no sign of Mr Rook.

“Hallooo?” Zachariah called out over the music. It was a warmish day, and the ice cream had already begun to melt. He stood in the middle of the chaos, feeling decidedly silly and wondering if he could subtly sneak back out again without being noticed. 

He was on the verge of doing just that when the door to the back room swung open, and Rook strode into the room. Shimmied, was really more like it. It was amazing to see hips work like that on a biped, but he supposed with pants as tight as the man was wearing, it was inevitable. 

When he noticed Zachariah, he froze and said, “Alexa, music off.” The shop went quiet. 

“Hello,” said Zachariah. “I own the sweet shop across the street. I brought you some ice cream, if you like, as a welcome present.” He held out his offering. 

“Ah. Hello.” Rook was staring at him like he had two heads. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses anymore, and his eyes were a most interesting shade—a sort of hazel with flecks of yellow. They perused Zachariah from head to foot, and Zachariah felt his face grow hot. He’d always been prone to blushing and had no chance of resisting it under such an examination. 

He cleared his throat and gestured more urgently with the ice cream. 

“Oh, thanks a lot.” Rook finally extended a long-fingered artist’s hand and took the cup. “Looks good.” His eyes were still focused on Zachariah’s face. 

So, this Mr Rook was a man of few words. He really was a most arresting fellow, not exactly handsome, but with his hawk nose, cut-glass cheekbones and piercing eyes, he was striking. That odd sense of familiarity Zachariah had experienced when he’d first seen the man returned with even stronger insistence. “Have we met before?” 

The man shook his head. “Don’t think so.” A bit of ice cream melted and dripped onto his fingers. “Ah, bollocks.” 

“You might want to eat that before it melts. I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck with your shop and getting everything together. I’m sure we will see one another around.” He turned to go. This whole situation was so very strange, so out of the ordinary from his typical routine. He needed a bit of time to process it in the comfort of his flat. 

“Wait.” 

Zachariah swung back. “Yes?” 

“You didn’t tell me your name.” 

“Fell. Mr Zachariah Fell.” 

Rook swallowed, nodded. “I’m Anthony Rook. Thanks for the ice cream.” He still hadn’t even taken a bite. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t know what kind you’d like. You’re always welcome to come try any of my other flavours.” 

He hadn’t meant the statement to sound suggestive, but from the arch of Rook’s eyebrow, it was clear the man read it as an innuendo. This, of course, only made Zachariah blush even harder. 

Rook finally lifted the spoon to his lips, which were really quite nice, and took a taste. “I’ll do that. Thanks again.”

With nothing more to say, Zachariah backed out of the shop, stumbling over some merchandise on the floor as he went. He couldn’t quite seem to tear his eyes away from Anthony Rook, who was smirking at him now. Finally, he reached the door, turned, and fled to safety on the other side of the road.


	2. Chapter 2

A week had passed since the encounter with Rook. Zachariah watched from afar as the shop across the street came into order with new windows and a new sign above the door replacing the old. Rook’s, it was simply called. No one knew when it would open, but the shop, and Rook himself, was the subject of much gossip. 

Odette and Louise were the worst offenders, of course, and they both wanted to know if Zachariah had taken up their suggestion of a shop-warming gift. He tried to deflect, not sure why this whole thing was affecting him so acutely. It was just a new shop, owned by a man of very distinctive style. But they wouldn’t be deterred until he confessed bringing over a salted caramel. 

“Oh, I bet he liked that, did he?” asked Odette suggestively. 

“Did he come back for more?” added Louise, picking up where Odette left off. 

Zachariah had to admit that no, so far he had not. “It’s quite all right. In any case, he has appalling taste in music.” 

“So does Louise,” said Odette, “and we’ve been married for twenty years.”

“I’ll have you know my taste in music is unparalleled.” Louise gave her partner a sour look.

Zachariah left the women to their teasing and tried not to look out the shop window at Rook’s. He’d seen the man every day, mostly coming and going, and his stomach did a curious flip whenever he caught a glimpse of red and black out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes he thought he saw Rook looking back, but if he was, he never gave any outward indication. 

To distract himself from his troubling new hobby, Zachariah threw himself into his work; he researched two new ice cream flavours and, through a process of trial and error, perfected them both. He thought he was succeeding very well, until his shop door chimed and in walked Anthony Rook.

He was dressed, as usual, all in black, and wore his black sunglasses. His tight trousers had a very faint sheen and his shirt, loose at the collar, clung to his narrow waist in a manner that was almost indecent for a Sunday. Zachariah had just come from church. He was suddenly very conscious of his pale cream suit, which, while well-tended and pressed, was several years old. 

Rook held up his hand in a lackadaisical sort of greeting and sauntered toward the counter. “Afternoon, Mr Fell.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr Rook.” He smiled in what he hoped was a confident, not at all nervous and fluttery, way. “Can I tempt you to some ice cream?” 

“Ah—yes, sure.” Rook leaned onto the counter, as though he was too tired to hold up the long length of his body. “Whatever you think is best.” 

“But surely you have a favourite. Let’s see. We have a nice lemon sorbet today, and a dark chocolate chip that’s quite tasty.” 

“What’s your favourite?” 

“I’m partial to a vanilla flake, myself.” 

“Sounds perfect.” 

“Cone or dish?” 

“Surprise me.” 

Feeling oddly pleased, Zachariah turned to select a cone and then opened the freezer case. As he prepared the ice cream, he was conscious of Rook watching him, almost as though he had a third eye. 

He garnished the scoop with the Cadbury flake and held it out. Meanwhile, Rook was searching for something in his tight trousers, which turned out to be a black credit card. 

“No, no.” Zachariah held out his hand. “It’s on the house. My treat.” 

“You already brought me ice cream on the house,” Rook said, his mouth twisting up in his odd not-smile. “Not a very solid business model, to go giving away all of your stock for free.” 

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I don’t care very much for that side of things. The money side. Please, just take it.” 

“All right.” Rook took the cone with no further objections, brought it to his mouth, and swept out his very long, very pink tongue to catch the melty bits on the side. Zachariah, who realised he was staring, glanced away just as the door chimed again.

A crowd of screaming children, bedraggled parents trailing behind, entered the shop. For the next fifteen minutes, Zachariah busied himself with filling their orders and doing his best not to curse them for their terrible timing. Luckily, they didn’t linger, and as soon as he’d accepted payment and the shop was quiet again, Rook approached. He’d finished his ice cream and was licking his fingers in a very pointed manner. 

“So, I see you do accept some people’s money,” he said, once he was done. 

“Well, I can hardly give everything away for free.” Zachariah pursed his lips.

“Hmm.” Rook crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the counter. “So, how long have you owned this shop?” 

Zachariah wiped his hands on a cloth and stepped around the counter to tidy up some of the candy displays, which the children had knocked over. “A few years,” he said, trying to remember the exact time frame, and frowning when he couldn’t. His memory wasn’t what it used to be . . . he didn’t think. He always had a hard time with dates, and only vaguely remembered life before he’d come to own the shop. He had been a teacher, or perhaps a librarian. He remembered lots of books. It bothered him sometimes, when he thought too much about it, so he didn’t think about it very much. 

“What about you?” he asked, watching Rook out of the corner of his eye as he restacked chocolate boxes. “How long have you been selling clothes?” 

“Ahh, a while.” Rook gestured vaguely. “In any case, that’s not what I came about. I was wondering—would you like to go for lunch?” 

The door opened again, this time a prelude to a teenaged couple holding hands. The girl was already gesturing toward the counter, and Zachariah remembered them immediately—they’d stayed nearly an hour the week before, flirting and kissing and loitering, not to put too fine a point on it. 

He shook his head. “I’m very sorry, but we’re closed at the moment.” 

“But the door was open,” the young man sputtered.

“Yes, I’d forgotten to lock it. Very sorry, but we’re all out of ice cream. Come back tomorrow.” Without further ado, Zachariah ushered the couple back toward the door and then locked it for good measure. When he turned back to Rook, the man was regarding him with a bemused expression.

“Hungry?” he asked, smirk firmly back in place.

Zachariah, realising how the exchange must have looked, sniffed primly. “I was feeling a bit peckish, now that you’ve mentioned it.” 

“To lunch, then? Unless you have other plans, like making some more ice cream?” 

Zachariah gave him an exasperated look. “Did you have any place in mind?” 

“Whatever you like. I’m not picky,” said Rook in a tone of voice which suggested he thought Zachariah very much would be. 

He wasn’t wrong. “There’s a little French café just down the road that does a lovely quiche and excellent crepes. We could walk there.” 

“Lead the way.” 

The breezy, warm afternoon was pleasant, and Zachariah found himself chattering on as they walked companionably down the narrow sidewalk. He was talking to stop himself from thinking about what was happening; because if he thought too hard, he would wonder whether this was a friendly luncheon or whether Rook had intended to ask him on a date. Having never been on a date that he could remember, Zachariah had no point of comparison. 

It seemed friendly enough. Rook was an excellent listener and seemed pleased with his company, nodding and murmuring in response whenever Zachariah required emphasis. He gave Rook the whole history of the neighborhood as he knew it: who lived where, what they were like, and what he could expect as a new resident. It wasn’t until they made it to the restaurant and were seated that Zachariah worried he’d been talking too much. He tended to do that when he was nervous. 

The room was quiet with only a couple other diners, and the server approached quickly to take their orders. Rook slouched back in his chair and asked for a glass of red wine. Zachariah chose white and a slice of quiche with salad. 

“I’m so sorry, my dear boy. I’ve been chattering on and you’ve barely gotten a word in edgewise.” 

“That’s all right. I like to hear you talk.” 

Zachariah’s stomach swooped pleasantly. “Please, tell me more about yourself. You’ve been living in New York, I hear? For how long?” 

“Five years, I think,” said Rook. “It’s all a bit hazy, but at least that long. Strange place, New York. I liked it very much.” 

“So what brings you back to England?” 

“Needed to be back here. Just . . . sort of felt it in my bones. You ever have that kind of feeling? Like you know what you need to do, but aren’t quite sure why?” 

Zachariah nodded, intrigued. He had often felt that way but hadn’t ever expressed it out loud to anyone. And there was something in Rook’s tone, again that strange familiarity. They couldn’t have been more different, and they barely knew each other, but it almost felt as though they’d been friends for years. 

“I had a feeling not unlike that when I opened my shop several years ago.” 

Rook’s eyebrows rose. “It seems like you’ve lived here forever. You know everything about everyone.” 

The server brought their wine and Zachariah’s food; he noticed that Rook hadn’t gotten anything, but then remembered the ice cream. Maybe he was no longer hungry. “Yes, well, people tell me things. I’m not entirely sure why.” He shrugged and took a sip of wine, smacking his lips at the tartness. “Scrummy.” 

After taking a sip of his own, Rook leaned forward on the table. It usually made Zachariah a little self-conscious to be watched while he ate, but he found he didn’t mind the way Rook was looking at him. He had taken off his sunglasses and folded them on the table, and his eyes really were mesmerising. They were such a pretty shade of hazel, the green and flecks of gold mingling. He blinked slowly and tilted his head as Zachariah brought his fork to his lips. “Good?”

“Very. Are you sure you won’t have anything? You invited me to lunch, after all.”

“Never been much of an eater. And I already had my dessert.” 

“No wonder you’re so slim. Owning a sweets shop makes it difficult to keep up one’s figure.” He drifted a hand to his middle, suddenly wondering how Rook saw him. If he minded a bit of extra cushion. Rook was, after all, so very attractive and fashionable, though closer to his own age than he appeared from afar; he looked like he could have a supermodel as a girlfriend—or boyfriend. Zachariah had always been content with his appearance and unconcerned with the latest trends; however, now he wished he’d had time to at least put on a new cardigan. The one he currently wore had a little hole in the elbow that he hoped Rook didn’t notice. 

Rook’s expression grew thoughtful, almost mournful. “It’s important to enjoy yourself, take what pleasure you can find. This world can be . . . difficult to live in, especially when you’re alone.” He seemed lost in memories, his eyes unfocused, and it made Zachariah’s chest twinge with sympathy. 

“Indeed. Do you miss the people you knew in New York? Ah—anyone in particular?”

The purpose of his question couldn’t have been more obvious, and Zachariah felt the tips of his ears go hot. He hoped he wasn’t being too forward. 

Rook’s eyes cleared. “I had a few acquaintances, but no one ‘special’ if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Oh.” He tried not to appear pleased. 

“And . . . is there anyone in your life?” 

That odd floating sensation he sometimes felt whenever he tried to remember his past threatened to drag him under. He fought against it, but it was insistent, pulling at the corners of his consciousness. A strange ache, a missing piece. For a moment, it hurt so badly he almost gasped, and he had to reach for his glass of wine to take a fortifying sip before he could answer. “I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t think so?” Rook seemed troubled. 

“No. I mean no. There’s no one special.” He sighed, folding his napkin on the table. 

“Well, then the world’s loss is my gain.” 

“So you’re saying . . . I hope you don’t think me terribly silly. But is this a date?” Zachariah nearly clapped his hand over his mouth as soon as the words escaped. The corners of Rook’s mouth turned up in a genuine smile, which did terrible things to the butterflies in Zachariah’s stomach. He found himself smiling back, unable to help himself. 

“Do you want it to be?” 

The server’s impeccably bad timing interrupted them before Zachariah could answer. Rook snatched the check up and slid his credit card into the black leather holder. “Please, it’s my treat.” 

“Thank you. For the date.” 

Outside, it was lovely. September had begun to turn the leaves lining the street yellow, but the majority were still green, and it still felt like summer. Their arms brushed as they walked back towards their respective shops, each unintentional touch sending sparks through Zachariah’s veins. He almost felt as though he could sprout wings, he was so content with the food, wine and company. Several times, he caught Rook watching him out of the corner of his eye, and it emboldened Zachariah to ask if they might have lunch again. 

“My shop’s opening tomorrow. Doing a little party around three o’clock. Will you come?” 

“Of course. I’d be delighted.” Rook swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. They’d reached the front of Zachariah’s shop, where there were, unfortunately, several customers waiting near the door. Perhaps, if they’d been alone, Zachariah might even have locked up for the rest of the day and asked Rook inside for another glass of wine. The thought of Rook in his flat, sprawled out over his little loveseat with winestained lips, sent a little shiver through him, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I look forward to seeing you again.” 

Rook gave him another of his rare, winning smiles and dipped his head, so that Zachariah could see his pretty eyes over the top of his glasses. “The feeling is mutual, angel.”


	3. Chapter 3

That night, Zachariah couldn’t sleep. 

He’d never slept well as long as he could remember. His insomnia didn’t seem to affect him much during the day, but it left him with far too much time to think. He kept up with his reading, of course, and made sure his accounts were all in order, but there were still hours and hours to fill, which became tedious and rather lonely at times. And sometimes, his worries took on a life of their own.

Not that he was worrying tonight, not precisely. He was, however, overthinking things. Rook had called him “angel,” and something about that pet name had burrowed into his mind, taking up residence there, and he couldn’t quite stop turning it over and over. He had liked it. It had made him feel warm and tingly down to his toes, the sweetness of it, the presumed intimacy. Rook didn’t seem like the kind of man to bestow endearments on near strangers, or at least it wasn’t in keeping with the persona he tried to project. In spite of that, the word issued from those lips felt almost as natural as breathing. It should have been odd, but it wasn’t, which was the strangest bit of all. And they had been on a date, a date which had gone well. That too was terribly exciting. 

Finally, daylight broke through the dusty shades in Zachariah’s bedroom, and he threw back the bedclothes and slipped on his robe to begin his morning routine, vowing to put Rook from his mind and get on with the day. He read the newspaper but couldn’t tell what he’d read afterwards. He went to the bank to make a deposit but didn’t bring the envelope with the money. He made ice cream but forgot to add the sugar and had to start all over again. At three o’clock on the dot, he hurried across the street to Rook’s. 

He hadn’t been inside since the previous week, when everything had still been in disarray. Now, however, the entire space was ordered in an artful, minimalist fashion. Several clothing displays showcased items that Zachariah didn’t think he’d be able to fit his left arm into. The pieces almost seemed more designed to be looked at than to be worn. Zachariah turned around, his eyes seeking out Rook but not finding him. The store was dimly lit and smelled like fresh paint. 

A server circulated with a tray of champagne glasses. Zachariah snagged one to fortify himself, along with a mushroom canape, and then looked around again. There were around thirty people in the shop, some that Zachariah recognized from the day of the move-in, some who were unfamiliar but clearly fashion people based on their clothing choices, and some regular folk from the neighborhood, including, Zachariah was not surprised to see, Louise and Odette. 

They spotted him at almost the same moment and hurried over, bringing with them several fresh glasses of champagne, one of which Odette promptly passed to Zachariah. He set down his empty glass on some pedestal that seemed designed for the purpose. 

“Well, isn’t this quite the do?” said Louise. “So many fashionable people.” 

“And he invited everyone in the neighborhood,” Odette continued, pulling a black note card out of her purse and flourishing it. Zachariah, who had not received a handwritten invitation, sniffed and sipped his wine. 

“You look quite dashing,” said Louise archly, looking him up and down. “Have you done something with your hair? And is that a new suit?” 

Zachariah’s hand immediately flew up to his curls, which he had, in fact, attempted to tame that morning by using a pomade he’d found in his medicine cabinet. The suit was not new but was one he seldom wore, since it was his favorite and he wanted to preserve the delicate velvet of the buttoned waistcoat. He flushed, grateful for the relative darkness. 

“Leave the poor lad alone,” said Odette, taking her wife’s hand. “You’ve been at the champagne, dear.” 

“I’ve only had two glasses.”

“Three. And that’s more than you usually drink in a year.” 

Louise hiccupped, and Odette rolled her eyes. 

At that very moment, Rook appeared from the back room, and Zachariah’s insides somersaulted. He was dressed all in black, as usual, but this time his pants were not only tight, but leather, and they clung to his lean thighs and calves like a second skin. He really was in marvelous shape for his age. A few of the fashion people greeted him, and he responded in kind, but it wasn’t until he turned and met Zachariah’s eyes that he really smiled. 

Zachariah’s heart thumped in his throat. He raised his hand, feeling quite faint. 

“Oh. Oh, I see,” said Louise. “Well, good on you, my dear. He is quite a dish.” 

“Enjoy the rest of the party, Mr Fell,” Odette said, bussing him on the cheek. “I’m taking this one home to bed.” 

“O _dette_ , I’m fine.” 

Once again alone, Zachariah grabbed another glass of champagne. The volume of the music increased, and soon so did the number of attendees. Gradually, the locals petered out and more fashion people arrived, and although Zachariah caught a glimpse of Rook here or there, he kept being thwarted by others who approached him first. 

So Zachariah amused himself by examining the art that decorated the shop throughout. There were several dramatic modernist paintings in black and white that he couldn’t pretend to understand, and a statue of two naked angels, one light and one dark, who appeared to be either wrestling or fornicating, it was difficult to say. Zachariah found himself drawn to the statue, a bit fuzzy headed from champagne. He turned his head this way and that, but still couldn’t quite decide what the angels were doing. 

A few minutes later, Rook materialized by his side. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t get away. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I was ah—admiring the art.” 

“Hmm. You like it?” 

“It’s very . . . interesting. I’m not sure exactly what to make of it.” 

“That’s rather the point.” 

“What about you? Are you enjoying yourself? Congratulations, by the way. Everything looks . . .” Zachariah searched his mind for the right word, not wanting to offend. “Very cool?” he finally said, and cringed at how he sounded. 

“Bah, it’s all bollocks, isn’t it?” 

Startled, Zachariah was about to ask Rook what he meant, when someone tapped Rook on the arm and whispered something that sounded urgent. 

“Hey, I’ve got to take care of something. Stick around, would you?” Rook touched the sleeve of Zachariah’s jacket, and then he sauntered off. 

Zachariah drank another glass of champagne. The crowd finally started to thin out around six, leaving only a few people who seemed to all know each other. Zachariah, who had by now begun to feel a bit like an old shoe, and a drunk one at that, was considering whether to leave when he heard a voice behind him. “I’m glad you stayed.” 

Rook looked slightly tipsy himself. He was wearing his dark sunglasses, and in his right hand he held a bottle of opened wine. His shirt was open a few buttons, displaying a bit of dark chest hair. He offered the bottle to Zachariah, who, in a very uncharacteristic move, took it and sipped. 

“It was a very interesting party.” 

“Oh, it was terrible. You can be honest.” 

Zachariah raised an eyebrow and passed back the bottle. “If you don’t like parties, why have one?” 

“Why indeed,” Rook muttered, seemingly more to himself than Zachariah. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?” 

“But your shop! The merchandise. Who will look after it if you simply leave?”

“My assistant is going to close up. Already been arranged.”

“Where are we going?” Zachariah asked, following him through the last remaining guests and out the open door. There was a strange man wearing a tattered suit who watched them as they left; he gave Zachariah a rotten-toothed smile, and Zachariah shuddered. He was glad to be out of the relative darkness of Rook’s artfully arranged store and into the fading sunlight and fresh air of the September evening. 

“Well, I’m too drunk to drive,” said Rook belatedly, shaking his empty bottle upside down. “But maybe we could go to your flat.” 

“My flat?”

“Er, we could go to mine, but it’s a bit of a ways, and we’d have to walk. We could take the bus or a taxi . . .” 

“No, no, my flat is fine. I’d be glad to have you.” His blood warmed, whether from the wine or the way Rook was looking at him, he wasn’t sure. “We can keep an eye on your store that way, make sure your assistant closes up properly. Not that I have been. Keeping an eye on you—your store that is.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Fell. My very own guardian angel.”

They crossed the street and Zachariah fumbled with his keys, then motioned for Rook to go first. “After you.” He closed the door quickly behind him lest any potential customers get ideas. “It’s just up the stairs through the back.” 

The flat was compact, with only one bedroom, a small sitting room, and a useable but tiny kitchen. As Zachariah unlatched the door and let Rook inside, he hoped it wouldn’t be too disappointing after the trendy, expansive space of his shop. Rook didn’t seem to mind, however; he made himself at home on the small sofa, just as Zachariah had hoped, while he went in search of something drinkable. There were a few bottles of a delicious Châteauneuf-du-Pape in his wine rack, and he selected one and hurried back to find Rook leaning back against the headrest, legs outstretched, shoes off, long toes burrowing into the worn pile of the carpet. 

“I do have something rather nice,” said Zachariah, flourishing the bottle. “Hope it suits.” 

“S’fine, whatever you’ve got, angel.” 

Zachariah froze while opening the bottle, his hands trembling slightly. “Why do you call me that? It’s the third time you have.” 

“Is it? Sorry, hope you don’t mind. Just ssseems to suit you.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“Good. Angel. Angel. Angel.” 

Rook had begun slurring his words, so Zachariah only poured him a small bit of wine and handed over the glass. Once he’d poured himself a modest measure, he considered where to sit: the sofa, next to Rook, was the preferred choice, but also very dangerous. His favourite armchair was safer, but not at all where he wanted to be at the moment. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and chose the sofa. Their thighs were nearly touching, and the tiny space separating them seemed charged with electricity. Rook filled the entire room with his presence. It suddenly felt very hot indeed in the cramped flat. 

“Thanks for helping me get out of there. It’s a bit much, all the . . .” Rook gestured around with his empty hand, long fingers searching through the air. “Fuss.” 

“Well, it certainly seemed to go off well. I think people were impressed.” 

“Were you?” 

The question took Zachariah by surprise. He wasn’t sure why Rook would care about his opinion. He smiled and sipped his wine. “I found it very informative.” 

“Informat—hey, angel—” Rook lurched up. He took off his sunglasses and folded them up, then put them on the coffee table. “What’s that ssssupposed to mean?” 

Zachariah, who found Rook’s concerned face quite fetching, bit his lower lip. “Oh, well, the statue, for one thing, which seems very lewd, but upon closer inspection I found it . . . almost reverent.” 

Rook snorted. “Reverent.” 

“Yes. And all the black decor, all the heavy music . . . but the clothing you sell is really quite lovely. That gauzy dress with the veil, it was almost ethereal.” 

“Ethereal.” Rook blinked at him. 

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” 

“Not if you kiss me.” Rook was very close now, his body angled just so. Zachariah sucked in a breath, felt his heart skip a beat. He realised he looked like a frozen rabbit, but he wasn’t sure what to do. No one had ever asked him for a kiss before, and he wanted to, quite badly, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed. 

“Sssssorry,” Rook said, misinterpreting his hesitance. “I shouldn’t have asked. Mmm’drunk, n’so are you. This is good wine, by the way.” He held his glass aloft, sloshing it a bit, and then set it down on the little mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa. Zachariah did the same. 

“Um.” 

“I could go, if you want me to. Take off. Get out of your hair. I don’t want to impos—”

Zachariah leaned forward, and he pressed his lips to Rook’s. The first contact was sweet, and Zachariah’s heart leapt with the rightness of it. He reached out and grasped Rook’s shoulders to anchor him there, not wanting him to move. Rook’s lips parted in shock, and then he was moving closer, wrapping his arms around Zachariah and kissing him back. 

Rook’s chest was very firm, nicely solid. His arms were sinewy and strong, and he smelled good, like fresh pine and woodsmoke, a combination that triggered a sense memory deep in Zachariah’s bones. He couldn’t quite chase it to its conclusion—the closer he got, the faster it dissipated, like steam in cool air. 

Rook kissed him steadily and gently smoothed his hands up Zachariah’s sides. It made Zachariah’s chest ache, to be treated so kindly even in the midst of passion. His insides were liquid, and he was hard and aching between his legs. He closed his eyes and moaned as Rook’s tongue stroked against his own. 

“Oh,” he said, as they finally broke free for breath. He was panting, surely red-faced, but the look on Rook’s face was equally wrecked, his pupils wide and his tongue tracing his swollen lips. 

“Ah.” 

“I . . . was that all right? I’m afraid I don’t have that much . . . experience in such matters.” His hands fluttered to his chest. “I suppose one isn’t supposed to mention things like that.” 

“Sss’all right,” Rook said with his hand on Zachariah’s thigh, bunching up the material of his trousers in his bony-knuckled grip. “More than all right. It’s strange . . .” 

“What?” 

“I feel like you’re the reason I came back. That isn’t—that sounds like a line, but it’s not.”

Zachariah held his breath. “That’s . . . well, you do seem very familiar to me. I’ve been trying to put my finger on why that should be. But I’m afraid my mind is a bit of a muddle, where my past is concerned.” 

“How so?” Rook’s eyebrows drew together. 

“It’s difficult to explain. I have memories, but they’re more like bits of knowledge than pictures or feelings. I know that my parents died in a car accident when I was young, but I don’t remember them. I know that I went to a boarding school in Scotland, but I can’t recall the friends I must have made there. Until I came here, to this place, the rest is rather a blur. Sometimes I think I must be going mad.” 

As he spoke, Rook’s face changed from concerned, to contemplative, to dumbstruck. “That’s exactly how I feel about my time before New York. I was raised by my mother, but she threw me out when I was fifteen. I know that, but I don’t remember anything of that time. I don’t remember going to school or art college, but I have a degree, so I must have done. I put it down to drugs.” 

“How very odd.” 

“It’s more than odd, angel,” Rook said with a pointed look. 

“What? Do you think I’ve been doing drugs in my ice cream shop?”

“No. Maybe we’ve been subject to some sort of nefarious government experiment?” 

“Or abducted by aliens.” 

“Or brainwashed.” 

Zachariah snorted. “Preposterous. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this.” 

“Are you, though?” Rook’s mouth drew up in his twisty half-smile. 

“No.” He put his hand to his temple, which was suddenly throbbing. “I’m . . . feeling rather unwell, actually. It must be the wine. I think I may . . .” His vision swam, and Rook disappeared as darkness overtook him.


	4. Chapter 4

When Zachariah came to he was slightly disoriented and utterly sober; he couldn’t recall how he’d made it to his bed. There was a cool cloth on his forehead and a glass of water on his bedside table. His head still hurt a little, though. He winced as he sat up and removed the cloth. 

There was a voice from the other room. Rook. Rook was speaking to someone on his phone. Suddenly the events from the evening came flooding back, and with them, other memories, or images, rather: yellow snake eyes and black wings. Zachariah shook his head to clear it. Perhaps he’d had more to drink than he’d thought. 

Before he could consider his state more closely, Rook came into the room, his eyes widening in relief when he saw Zachariah sitting up. “I’ve just been on the phone with emergency. They said if you didn’t wake up, I should bring you in.” 

“Well, I’m awake. I’m quite all right. You don’t need to fuss.” Still, Zachariah was touched that Rook was concerned, that he’d tried to care for him. 

“What happened?” 

“I’m not sure, actually. I . . . had a very strange dream.” 

Rook sat down next to him on the edge of the bed. “What about?” 

“A man with wings.” 

Rook’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Wings?” he finally said. 

“Yes, and yellow eyes, eyes like a snake. I can’t picture the rest of his face. His wings had the most beautiful feathers, blacker than black. Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Because the night before last I had a dream about a man with white wings. How do you explain that?” 

“Coincidence?” Zachariah said, his voice going high. 

“The man in my dream was you.” 

“What?” 

“It was. It was you in my dream, angel.” 

“Now _that_ is what I call a bad line, Rook.” 

“Anthony.” 

“Fine. Anthony.” Zachariah pulled his knees into his chest. He felt utterly unsure, unable to determine whether Rook was having him on, or whether something strange, some force beyond their control, was bringing them together. “Could still just be a dream.” 

“Maybe.” Rook didn’t seem convinced. He fidgeted on the bed, fingers raking through his pretty hair, and the memory of their kiss earlier that night flooded back, warming Zachariah all over. He wanted to do it again, but Rook—Anthony—seemed preoccupied. It likely wasn’t the time to make further advances. His fingers itched to run though that soft hair, though, and he had to bunch them in the fabric of his covers to stop himself from reaching out. 

“What if . . .” Rook began, then stopped. He wrinkled his nose. “Nah.” 

“What?” 

“You know what they say about past lives, how some people remember things that never happened to them?” 

“You mean reincarnation?” 

“Sounds stupid, I know. But it would explain how we’ve both been feeling . . . drawn to each other.” 

Zachariah frowned, contemplating the possibility. It did sound absurd, but he found he couldn’t discount it entirely. And Rook was looking at him in a very peculiar way, as though he was seeing him for the first time. 

“Listen, it’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow, yeah? You need to get some rest.” Rook slipped off the bed, his movement all sinewy grace. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” _Stay,_ Zachariah wanted to say. _Stay with me_. But Rook was already edging toward the door. He paused on the threshold and stood with his thumbs hung in his pockets. 

“It was nice, before the fainting and the wings bit. Kissing you. I’d like to do it again, sometime soon.”

Zachariah’s hand flew automatically to his lips, as though by touching them he could recapture the moment. “Yes. I’d like that.” 

“Good night, angel.”

***

Zachariah did sleep again, this time without dreams. When he woke up, it was already past ten, and for the first time he could remember, he didn’t want to get out of bed. His head was a muddle from the previous night’s happenings, filled with things he wasn’t sure were real or imagined. The yellow snake eyes, the black wings. He could almost feel the texture of the feathers if he thought about it hard enough. They were nearly as real as the feel of Rook’s lips against his own.

When he finally managed to get himself up and ready for the day, he chanced a glimpse across the street. Rook’s shop looked open, and there were a few passersby peering in the window, as if weighing whether to go inside. He wondered if they would see each other again that day. A sharp rap at the door startled him from his reverie. It was a delivery courier wearing a motorcycle helmet. He handed over a small brown envelope, and then departed without so much as a word. 

Zachariah retreated back into his shop and stared at it, wondering who it could possibly be from. There was nothing on the outside to indicate its provenance. He carefully tore the letter open and blinked, his blood freezing as he read the words written in a dull black ink.

_We know who you are._

That was it. No signature, no return address. Zachariah felt as though someone had walked over his grave. 

Without thinking too much about it, he reached for his coat and keys and locked up the shop, slipping the note into his breast pocket as he crossed the street. Someone could be watching him right now, he realised. Someone who was obviously up to no good—but why? It didn’t make sense. Zachariah was a simple man with a simple life. He had never harmed anyone. Why should he be receiving anonymous, nefarious notes like . . . like someone who wasn’t very nice? 

Rook’s shop door was open, and music with too many guitars drifted out into the street. Zachariah stepped inside. 

“Anthony?” he called quietly. 

“I had a car.” 

Zachariah spun around, blinking in the dim light. There was Rook, perched on a very throne-like chair behind a desk with one of those fancy credit devices that Zachariah never knew how to use when he did his shopping. 

“What?”

“I had a car. A Bentley, angel. I dreamed of her last night. You should have seen her. Gorgeous, sleek black. Perfect condition. I loved that car.” He sounded so wistful, Zachariah almost forgot about his own little dilemma. 

“I take it you’re referring to your past life?” Zachariah said, unable to keep a bit of sarcasm from his voice. 

“Hey, that car is the realest thing I remember, other than you, of course.” Rook arched an eyebrow. 

Zachariah arched one right back. “Indeed. Me and my lovely white feathers.” 

Rook smiled, showing far too many teeth, and Zachariah felt a little tremor go through his body. The man really was incorrigible. “So, is this a social call? So soon? I’m flattered.”

He patted his pocket and felt for the note. “I’m afraid not. I received this delightful missive this morning, just a few minutes ago.” 

Rook took the note, sitting up in his chair quickly as he read it over. “This sounds like a threat.” 

“Yes, that is how I’ve interpreted it as well.”

“But why? Do you have any idea who it could be from?” 

“No more than you.” Rook’s concern didn’t have a placating effect on Zachariah. In fact, it only made him more nervous. 

“Have you seen anyone unusual around, someone at your shop or on the street, someone watching you?” 

“There was that man.” Zachariah furrowed his brow, trying to remember his face, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was to picture. Just like the memories that plagued him. He sighed.

“Who?” 

“There was someone here yesterday at your shop. Someone . . . who didn’t seem quite right. But I’m afraid I don’t remember what he looked like. Just that he looked . . . wrong. Like he didn’t belong here.” 

Rook frowned. “I had no idea who half the people here were, to be honest.” 

“Hmm. That’s not very helpful.” 

“Sorry, I’m not the one who says he saw someone scary but can’t remember his face.” 

“Let’s not get grumpy.” Zachariah folded his hands together. “I know I’m going to regret this, but do you have any theories about who it could be?” 

“Yeah. I have a few. Come on in the back where we can talk more privately.” Rook unfurled himself from his chair, locked the front door, and gestured to Zachariah to follow. For one terrifying moment, Zachariah wondered if it had been Rook himself who’d sent the note, but then dismissed the idea out of hand. It wasn’t Rook’s style, and for an unaccountable reason, Zachariah trusted him. 

“Isn’t it rather bad form to close your shop during business hours when you’ve just had your grand opening?” Zachariah said as they entered a small office space, sparsely decorated, the walls done in a deep midnight blue. There was a plush leather sofa on one end, a desk at the other. Zachariah took a seat on the sofa and felt his body melt into the buttery leather. 

“Says the man who physically kicks customers out of his shop so he can have a spot of lunch,” Rook grumbled. He certainly was testy today. 

“All right. So, what’s your theory?” 

“Hypnosis.” 

“Anthony, really—"

“Hear me out. After my dream last night, I got to thinking about my past, the memories I told you about—being kicked out by my mum, attending art school. So I Googled myself.” 

“My word.” Zachariah’s face flushed. 

“It doesn’t mean what I think you think it means, angel. And isn’t that strange, that you have virtually no idea how the internet works? In any case, I found some recent articles—pieces about the shop, my time in New York, but nothing earlier than the year 2019. It was like, before then, I didn’t exist. There is no record of an Anthony J Rook attending any art school in Britain in the last fifty years.” 

“Oh.” 

“And then I did the same for you. Got the same results. Look here.” 

Rook had a shiny silver laptop, which he opened with a practiced flip. He showed Zachariah a number of articles from his ‘search history’, which did indeed seem to prove that neither of them had an ‘internet presence’ earlier than five years past. 

“Which, conveniently, is just when I found myself in New York. And it’s when you came here, isn’t it?” 

Zachariah swallowed. Thoughts were swarming in his head like bees, and his stomach felt uncomfortably twisty. He hated to admit it, but Rook’s theory was convincing. More than that, it helped to explain the strangeness of Zachariah’s life in a way that he had never been able to explain it before. In that, at least, there was some comfort. 

“And . . . you think that someone tried to erase our real memories and, what, plant false ones?” 

“Yes.” 

“But why?”

“Angel. I’m going to show you something. Please, promise not to freak out.” 

“All right,” Zachariah replied with some trepidation. 

Rook stood quietly in the center of the room; then he snapped his fingers. The lights went out. 

“Oh. Is that one of your little electronic devices?” 

In the darkness, Rook snorted and snapped his fingers again. The lights came back on. “No. I did it with . . . I don’t really know, to be honest. Listen, have you ever heard of the X-Men?” 

“No. I haven’t. Is that some sort of musical act?” 

“See? How is it you can live in the world and not know who the X-Men are? They’re mutants, fictional mutants, of course, but they have different sorts of powers, and the humans are mostly afraid of them. They try to control them, and it doesn’t go very well.” 

“And when did you discover your power to turn light switches off and on?” Zachariah said archly. 

“Last night. When I came home from yours, I did it with just a thought. Just because I wanted to.” 

“Rook—" 

“Listen, I know you don’t believe me. But there’s something else. When I woke up this morning, my eyes . . . had changed.” 

Until now, Zachariah hadn’t thought too much about the fact Rook was wearing his sunglasses. He often wore them indoors. But he usually took them off at some point or other while they were talking, and today he hadn’t. 

“What happened to them, my dear boy?” 

“I’m afraid if I show you, you’ll run out of here screaming.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Okay. I didn’t want to have to do this, but . . .” Rook removed his glasses. His eyes were closed, and when he blinked open, Zachariah gasped.

Rook’s beautiful hazel eyes were gone, and in their place were shocking, magnificent gold eyes with slit pupils, like the eyes of a snake. There was absolutely no doubt in Zachariah’s mind they were the eyes he’d seen in his dream, or vision, or memory—whatever the case it hardly mattered. Rook was shaking his head. 

“I know they’re horrible,” Rook said softly. “I’m sorry.” He quickly put his glasses back on and sat down on the edge of the sofa, too far away for Zachariah to touch. 

“They . . . they aren’t horrible. It’s . . .” Something about the eyes was comforting; seeing them there in Rook’s face, it was almost like coming home. “Let me look again?” 

Rook turned slowly towards him, sliding back into the leather. His movements were, as always, snakelike, and Zachariah felt almost giddy. He moved closer, and then very slowly, giving Rook time to object, reached towards his face to remove the sunglasses and set them aside. 

Rook didn’t blink. His features were hardened as though bracing for rejection. Zachariah’s hand hovered by his cheek. 

“I still think they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.” With just the very tips of his fingers, Zachariah stroked Rook’s face, feeling the hard line of his jaw, the sharp cheekbones. 

“Angel,” Rook whispered, features softening. His eyes, though, were terrified. “I don’t know who I am.” 

Zachariah didn’t have any answers, but in that moment there was only one thing to do. He leaned forward and kissed Rook, sliding his fingers into his hair. Rook moaned at the contact, and he clutched Zachariah to him as though he were drowning, and maybe in some sense he was. They were both moorless, with only the other to anchor them. Rook’s mouth was soft and welcoming, intoxicating, sweeter than ice cream or the finest chardonnay. Zachariah felt he could kiss him forever. He would never get his fill. 

It was even more urgent than the kiss from the night before. Before Zachariah knew it, he was in Rook’s lap, and they had their arms around each other, holding on tight, their mouths moving together, hips grinding. Zachariah could feel Rook’s hardness against his own, and even through all of their clothes the contact inflamed him. He groaned and bucked, and Rook’s hands slid down to hold his bottom and pull him tighter. Rook was making small, breathless sounds against his mouth. Zachariah pressed down against him and shook with the building sensation. 

His nerves were strung tight, thighs trembling as he chased it, unheeding of anything else. He had never been so desired, had never desired anyone in turn. It was addictive; he understood now why humans—humans? 

“Zachar—ah,” Rook said, his whole body shaking as he tossed his head back and grimaced, and with a giddy disbelief, Zachariah realised he was . . . he was coming. He tucked his face against Rook’s neck, mouthing at the skin there as his climax approached, the inevitable outcome of passion. Of love. 

How could it be that he loved this person beneath him, who he had just met? 

_You know him,_ that voice inside him whispered. _If only you would see_.

The tide swept him away, and he held on and cried out as pulse after exquisite pulse wracked his body. Everything went bright, blindingly bright. He clutched Rook to him as though he would never let go. 

As he came back to himself, he realised Rook was smoothing his hands up and down his sides, pressing soft kisses against his face. Everything was suddenly very sticky. Slightly embarrassed, but also very pleased, Zachariah shifted and slid off onto the sofa next to him. He was reluctant to move too far away, however, and was gratified when Rook’s arm slipped around his shoulders, as though he felt the same way. 

“Well,” Rook said, a little breathlessly. “That was a thing.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You have a halo. Not now, but when you were coming . . .” 

Zachariah startled. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“I mean, I saw a white light coming from behind your head while you got your rocks off, angel. It almost singed my eyes. Didn’t last long, though. Luckily—”

“You can’t be serious,” Zachariah said weakly. 

“I’m dead serious. Why would I lie to you about that?” 

The warm, sated sensation in Zachariah’s belly was dissipating, replaced by a feeling of what could only be called existential dread. He pushed Rook’s arm off his shoulders and scooted further away. 

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” Rook muttered. He found his sunglasses and slipped them back on, and now that Zachariah couldn’t see his eyes, he felt like a wall had descended. “Hey, we’ll figure this out.” 

“Will we?” Zachariah laughed bitterly.

Rook snapped his fingers and the lights went off, then he snapped again. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“You want me to turn the lights off and on with . . . my powers. That I don’t have.” 

“We don’t know that yet.” 

Zachariah frowned at him. “I can’t. I . . . won’t.” 

Rook frowned back and crossed his arms. “Fine.” 

“I . . . think I need to go.” 

“You can’t go back to your flat alone. What about that note? It isn’t safe.” 

Zachariah stood up with as much dignity as he could muster, given the state of his pants. “It was probably just a child playing a prank. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” 

Rook mimicked him silently and threw up his hands. “How can someone so intelligent be so willfully stupid?” 

“Well.” Zachariah pursed his lips. “Goodbye.” 

As he walked from the back room toward the front door, he tried to ignore the tug under his ribs, the pain that blossomed with every step that took him away from the man he’d left behind. He grit his teeth and pushed onwards, back to the calm space of his flat, the life he had built for himself. In the shower he washed away the sticky residue of his passion, trying not to think of the way Rook had looked in the throes of his own. It had only been sex: a normal, everyday thing that people did. Even Louise and Odette would approve. The halo thing was utter tosh; Rook was having Zachariah on. Perhaps this was a joke to him, a dig at Zachariah’s inexperience. 

He dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a fresh shirt and tried to tame his hair. He was just an ordinary man, with an ordinary life. To think anything else was simply absurd. He was no angel.


	5. Chapter 5

Days passed, then turned into a week. 

Zachariah didn’t venture across the street, and there was no sign of Rook at all. He had closed up his shop, according to Louise and Odette. No one knew where he’d gone. 

It hurt, that Rook had left without saying goodbye, but Zachariah supposed he couldn’t really have expected anything else after the way they’d parted. 

And so he made his ice cream and served his customers and tried to carry on. He found, however, that the treats he’d always loved tasted less sweet, and that his thoughts drifted to Rook more often than any other subject: his strange eyes, his beautiful lips, his troubling theories . . . and always with the sound of that last recrimination ringing in his ears. _How can someone so intelligent be so willfully stupid?_

He missed Rook like he’d lost his best friend. And worse, he was worried. Yes, it was plain that Rook had a flair for the dramatic; but what if Rook hadn’t simply picked up and left? What if something had happened to him? 

On the eighth day, Zachariah took himself across the street. He was, as expected, greeted with a locked door and darkened storefront. Mail had begun accumulating in a pile outside of the shop, and Zachariah gathered up the envelopes, then flipped through them, searching for anything that looked suspicious and finding nothing. There were no letters similar to the one he’d received. 

He jostled the door handle and leaned forward to peer inside but could only see darkness. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he tried it again, putting all of his weight into it, but the door didn’t budge. 

“Oh dear me,” said Zachariah to himself, feeling unsettled. He rubbed his hands together and glared at the lock. “I want you to open.” 

Nothing. 

He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and reached out again. “You are open.” 

The handle turned, and the door opened to reveal pitch blackness. Zachariah sucked in a breath as a shiver ran though his body. “Impossible.” 

But it wasn’t impossible. The door, which only seconds before had seemed an impenetrable barrier, was now opened for him, the threshold beckoning even as it made the hairs on the back of Zachariah’s neck stand on end. Zachariah smoothed the front of shirt down and then, with one last deep breath, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 

Something did not feel right. 

The shop was as he’d last seen it, the fashionable clothes artfully arranged in displays, the table with the device for payment, the pieces of art that Zachariah had found so illuminating. 

But it smelled like something burning, or rather, rotten eggs. Like sulphur. And there was a faint buzzing in the air, as though the room were filled with invisible flies. 

Zachariah walked quickly towards the back of the shop, the site of their previous assignation, and pushed the door open. “Rook?” He flipped on the light switch, and it flickered for a moment before casting a lurid glow over the scene before him. 

On the floor, there was a scorch mark, still smoking faintly, and on the wall . . . well, there was no wall. It was gone, leaving only a dark space, a void, that swirled and pulsed with something that looked slick as oil. A membrane. A vortex. It was just opposite from the sofa where only a week ago they had kissed and held each other.

Zachariah’s head pounded. He could almost feel Rook’s presence; it hadn’t been very long ago that the man was here, that much was certain. How he knew, he couldn’t say, only that the entire room seemed filled with his essence. The ominous stain on the scorched floor gave Zachariah pause. His hand fluttered to his throat, and panic welled up from his chest, making it difficult to breathe. 

Something had happened here, a struggle. Rook had been taken, but why? And by who? And what was on the other side of that undulating darkness?

The answer, when it came, was as clear as day, as though it had been dropped into Zachariah’s brain by a higher power, or as though it had been there all along.

Hell. Hell had been here, had come for Rook. Rook. Rook. The name suddenly sounded wrong to him, did not quite fit. His aching mind searched for the right one, searched through a convoluted haze of thoughts and images that suddenly seemed to swarm, making him dizzy. Rook. Rook, who was not Rook, who was not a stranger, who was someone that Zachariah had loved for a very long time; Zachariah who was not Zachariah, who was someone else, who was not a man, nor human at all. 

_Principality Aziraphale,_ said a sing-song voice calling out through the void. _We’ve got your boyfriend._

Rook. Rook wasn’t Rook. 

“My dearest.” Zachariah stepped closer to the pulsing black membrane. “I’m coming.” 

The darkness swirled around him. 

When he woke, he was in pain. A searing pain rippled from his back up to his shoulders, and he groaned, blinking as he tried to clear his vision. He was in another room, still dimly lit, with flickering lights as though someone had forgotten to pay the electric, and the smell of sulphur was even stronger, choking him. He was bound to a metal chair, and something putrid and wet was dripping on his head. The strange, aching tension in his back muscles drew his attention, and as he turned his head he was shocked by the sight of wings, white but covered in dirt and some vile black substance that fused the feathers together unnaturally. He tried to stretch them, overwhelmed with the need to free himself, but found himself unable to do so. His wings were bound, too. 

As he got his bearings, he realised he was not alone. 

“Crowley?” he whispered, and the name tripped off his tongue so naturally, it made him ache, the pain even worse than the pain in his shoulders, the pain of his ruined wings. How could he ever have forgotten? How could he have allowed them to be separated again? “Crowley,” he said, louder now, shaking his head to clear his stupor. “My dear, please answer me.”

Crowley was tied to the chair opposite, his head lolling against his chest. His black wings were brutally bound together, and even from the distance Aziraphale, for he was Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, could see the feathers were badly damaged. Crowley’s hair hung limply, his arms pulled taut behind him. Aziraphale struggled, but his hands and feet were firmly secured to the metal chair with some sort of infernal ropelike material that wasn’t responsive to any miracles. Aziraphale grit his teeth and pulled, but only succeeded in tightening the bind around his wrists. 

“Crowley,” he said again, this time almost at a yell. “For the love of the Almigh—f-for my sake, please wake up.” 

A faint moan, and Crowley stirred. Aziraphale’s heart lurched in his chest, both from fear and relief. Crowley didn’t look well. He lifted his head with what appeared to be a great effort, and blinked open his eyes, which immediately widened in horror as they met Aziraphale’s.

“Angel! What in Sssomeone’s name are you doing down here?” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, more of a hiss than Aziraphale had heard since the Garden.

“I came to find you. At your shop, but you were gone, and I . . . don’t know what happened, but the next thing I knew, I was here.” 

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “You called me—”

“Crowley, yes, I know. I remember . . . I know who we are, my dearest. I’m so sorry I was so blind.” 

“Ssss‘not your fault. Listen. I don’t know how much time we have until they come back. They’re probably listening to us now.” 

“Who did this to you? How long have you been here?” 

“Doesn’t matter. Look, we’ve gotta get you out of here. That’s why they nabbed me, you know, to get to you. I told them you didn’t know who I was, wouldn’t come after me, but, dammit, angel.” He let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “They want your grace.” 

“My . . . grace?” Aziraphale didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He sat back in his chair in shock, groaning as the pressure further constricted his wings. 

“Yeah. To make some kind of weapon to keep the underlings in line. Seems there’s been some unrest since the Apocalypse went tits up. Demons are angry, they want what they were promised by the higher-ups. They’re starting to question their orders. The point of all of this.” Crowley shook his head, a disgusted sneer on his face. “Can’t have that, of course. No such thing as free will down here.” 

“Who told you this?” 

“Hastur. He can’t keep a secret to save his life.” Crowley rolled his eyes. 

Aziraphale’s mind was racing, trying to understand. He was still reeling from the knowledge of who he really was, still trying to reconcile the truth with the human life he had been living for the last five years, but there simply wasn’t time to process it all. They were in immediate danger. “And how do they presume to steal my grace? Surely that’s quite impossible.” 

“They know, angel. They know what we did, about the switch. That’sss—” 

The door to the room opened. Beelzebub and Hastur, looking as hideous as ever, entered with two armed guards following close behind.

“Demon Crowley, that’s enough from you,” said Beelzebub, their ever-present retinue of flies buzzing around their head. “Told you we should have separated them.” They gave Hastur a pointed look, and Hastur grimaced, his boil-ridden face twisting. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled. 

“Get what over with?” Aziraphale asked, panicked now. 

“Loverboy already told you, didn’t he? Took us long enough to find the two of you. You were hidden, but not well enough. This one over here’s too clever for his own good. Rook’s. Did you think we wouldn’t figure it out? And you? An ice cream shop?” Beelzebub laughed, though Aziraphale had never heard a more mirthless sound. “Might as well have put a bleedin’ neon sign over your head.” 

“Who? You mean Heaven?” He had no recollection of how he’d lost his memory and come to live as a human. No matter how hard he pressed, that bit of the puzzle remained stubbornly elusive. There had been lunch at the Ritz, a walk home to the bookshop, and then . . . nothing. He’d woken up as Zachariah, in Zachariah’s flat. 

Hastur snorted, gave Beelzebub a conspiratorial glance, but Beelzebub gave him a quelling look and turned back to Aziraphale.

“But my esteemed colleague here is right. We need to get a move on. The natives are getting restless. Now, give us your grace.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “And how do you presume I do that, even if I were willing?” 

“You inhabited the demon Crowley’s body, and he inhabited yours. Good trick. Fooled us all, but not for long. We know all about your friend Madame Tracy, too. Did you think that little display was going to go unnoticed? Now we know what you can do, angel.” The way Beelzebub said the last word sent shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. It was the very opposite of the way Crowley did, with that touch of warmth. Of love. Aziraphale chanced a glance over at his friend, his—Heavens, they had finally become lovers, hadn’t they—and was met with an anguished stare that pierced his heart. 

“Now,” Beelzebub continued. “You’re going to make the switch into old Hastur here, but he’s going to stay right where he is. Once you’re in there, you will cede Hastur full control over your powers.” 

“But you . . . you’ll explode.” 

Hastur looked alarmed. 

“You lot like to think of yourselves as so different from us, but we’re all the same stock. We have it on good authority,” Beelzebub said with a sneer, glancing upwards to make their meaning clear, “that won’t be the case. In fact—” They leaned forward as though sharing an intimate secret. “—this whole thing wasn’t even my idea.” 

Aziraphale let out an angry sigh, trying not to be surprised over this new development. Surely if the elites of Heaven were involved, likely Gabriel, Uriel, or Sandalphon, perhaps all three, he couldn’t count on any help from that quarter. He and Crowley were truly on their own side once again, and this time on enemy ground.

“And if I don’t agree?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Then your boyfriend gets that holy water bath he avoided the last time.” 

Aziraphale looked again at Crowley, who was shaking his head, eyes gone completely yellow, face white with pain. “Don’t do it, angel. Not for me. It isn’t worth it. You can’t give them what they want; you can’t give them your grace.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do you remember the night we switched?” 

“Oh, we don’t have time for this,” Beelzebub said, throwing up their hands. 

“Is this some sort of sexual reference?” Hastur looked disgusted, which made him look even more disgusting than usual. Inhabiting his body was becoming a more repellent prospect by the second. 

“Yeah, I remember,” Crowley said, his voice cracking. 

“Do you remember what I said to you?” 

“Yeah. You said, ‘trust me’.” 

“So I did,” said Aziraphale. He only had one chance. He had to do this before the guards could react and make good on their promise to hurt Crowley. The demons, as usual, had no forethought and even less imagination, and there was no actual holy water in the room—perhaps Beelzebub had been bluffing about having blessings from Above. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, concentrating, and then, without further ado, he was flying out, spinning into a thousand pieces and landing, not in Hastur’s body, but in Beelzebub’s. The shock was intense for both of their essences, and as soon as Aziraphale felt himself settle into the rotten body, he felt the presence of the demon: a static, grating and terrible consciousness vying with him for control. However, unlike Beelzebub, Aziraphale had experience and the power of surprise on his side. He had often been underestimated—by Heaven, Hell, even himself—trusted to do the right thing, to take the safe path. That was what Beelzebub had been betting on, and that was where they had gone very, very wrong. 

Aziraphale wrestled with the demon, their minds knocking against each other in fierce, desperate combat, and then Aziraphale was in charge, for how long, he had no idea. With wrists and wings no longer bound, however, he did have his powers to make miracles again—and his first one was to dispose of both the guards and Hastur. He sent them somewhere on the astral plane, not caring where, with little more than a thought, and then he turned to Crowley and freed him with a glance. The power surged in his veins, a strange, potent mixture of angelic and demonic, and for a moment Aziraphale was tempted with the possibilities of limitless, expansive power, the power to destroy and create, the power to make the world in his own image, and he laughed, a deep, raspy sound that was half his voice, half Beelzebub’s.

Then he saw Crowley’s face. 

Crowley looked . . . awed. Impressed. Terrified. 

“Aziraphale? Is it still you in there?” 

His name brought him back into himself, or rather, the body he was currently inhabiting. He pushed the terrible thoughts aside, not sure if they were Beelzebub’s or his own, and nodded. “Yes, my dear. Let’s get out of here. Are you well enough to walk?” 

“I think so. Feeling better already.” 

“Well, we best get a move on. I’m not sure how long I can hold our friend here back, and . . . I don’t know what will happen to my body.” 

With renewed alarm Crowley stood, and with a few unsteady paces crossed the room to where Aziraphale’s corporation lay slumped over, still bound by hands and feet. Without Aziraphale’s essence, the wings had disappeared. He looked so fragile—so utterly human—it was no wonder so little was expected of him. 

Crowley tucked his own wings away with what looked like great discomfort, then reached out and smoothed back the dirty, cottony hair and took a shuddery breath. “You’re cold.” 

“Can you carry me? Er, my corporation?” The sooner he could get out of the demon, the better. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he heard Beelzebub buzz with anger. 

“Of course.” 

Once his body was properly freed and hoisted onto Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale gave Crowley what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though it felt like more of a sneer. He wasn’t sure Beelzebub had ever smiled in their life. “Right. Until we’re safe, I’m not me.” 

“Got it. Lead the way, oh Lord of the Flies.” Crowley swatted at his head, making a face. “Don’t know how they stand these little buggers. Not like they’re good for anything but driving people mad.”

“I think that’s precisely the point, my dear. Now. You’re my prisoner, yes?” 

“Always and forever.” Crowley grinned. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips, rolled his shoulders, and pushed open the door. “Lord Beelzebub,” said the guard, a lesser demon stationed outside, quickly coming to attention from where he’d been dozing slumped on the dirty floor. “Something wrong with the prisoner?” His eyes glanced beyond Aziraphale to where Crowley stood, holding Aziraphale’s corporation slung limply over his shoulder, like a sack of cloth. Aziraphale spoke in Beelzebub’s raspy voice. 

“You never saw anything. Go back to sleep.” 

And so he did. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “Do you know how to get out of here?” 

Crowley glanced up and down the hall, wrinkling his nose, and Aziraphale followed his gaze. The place looked, for all intents and purposes, like a darker, danker, and smellier version of Heaven. “It’s a rabbit warren down here, but I think I know where we are.” 

“All right. You just tell me where to go. You can do this, my love.” 

The words just slipped out before Aziraphale could put them back again, and somewhere in the deep recesses of his—their—mind, Beelzebub recoiled. Crowley looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. 

“This way,” Crowley said faintly.

There wasn’t time to think about it now. Aziraphale turned his head and started to walk down the blessedly deserted hallway in the direction Crowley had indicated, with Crowley at his heels. They turned left, then right, then left again, and Aziraphale thought irreverently of a children’s story and wished for breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, with his renewed powers, this instantly resulted in two pocketfuls of crumbly, stale bread, which he then vanished with another thought. 

Every now and then, he chanced a look at Crowley, whose face was partially obscured by Aziraphale’s body hoisted aloft. Crowley held his corporation tenderly, smoothing the fabric of his ruined trousers with his blackened fingers, and Aziraphale felt his throat constrict with feeling. The demon inside him took the lapse in concentration for an opportunity; Beelzebub snarled and tried to push to the surface, but Aziraphale immediately snapped back to attention. It was easier this time. He was growing stronger. 

“I think we’re getting to the end of this circle,” Crowley whispered. “But we can’t exactly waltz out of the main entrance. I think we need to find that portal back to my shop. Rook’s shop. To be honest, I have no fucking clue where it might be. Maybe on the next level. There’s more administrative offices up there. And the break room, which no one ever uses.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Can you . . . ah, poke around a bit in your host’s mind?” 

“Very good idea, my dear.” 

Aziraphale concentrated, allowing a tendril of thought to brush up against Beelzebub’s consciousness and seek out their memory of the kidnapping. It was a terribly invasive feeling, and he choked slightly as Beelzebub fought against the intrusion. Searching for a needle in a haystack would be easier. He was combing through thousands of years of memories, and most of them were terribly unpleasant: years upon years of planning for the Apocalypse, serving as an intermediary between Satan and the rest of the demon elite. Grueling boredom punctuated by moments of terrible violence and awful pain. Satan wasn’t a kind master, and Aziraphale recoiled from a vision of the Beast reaching out to touch, the memory of a burning hand against his—no, Beelzebub’s—flesh. Unwanted. Terrible. Unbearable. 

It was easier now to understand why Lord Beelzebub was the way they were, why they stopped at nothing to do Satan’s bidding. He pitied them. 

Beelzebub did not like the pity, however. They snarled and twisted and called Aziraphale a series of choice names. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for the way you’ve suffered. Just show me how to get us out of here, and I’ll leave you be.” 

And there it was—the portal, still swirling with that infernal black ichor. And there was the way, laid before him. Aziraphale searched for the lie, for the deception leading them into a trap, but the memory was untainted. 

_Just get out of here. Get out of my body, and never tell anyone what you saw. If you obey me in this, I’ll leave you alone._

“This way,” he said, feeling unsettled and not at all sure whether he had just made peace with a Prince of Hell. 

They passed several more lesser demons, but no one gave them any trouble. Beelzebub didn’t exactly have a positive reputation down here, and no one wanted to draw attention to themselves and risk oblivion if they dared question them. Aziraphale strode with confidence towards the door indicated in the memory with Crowley at his heels. 

“It’s just through this door,” said Aziraphale, swatting at the gnats around his head. “We’ll have to make the switch quickly. The portal won’t be open for much longer. You’ll need to get us through, as I’m not sure what will happen once I’m back in my body. On three.” He could only hope. 

Crowley’s yellow eyes were focused on his face, the emotion in them plain. “Angel, I—” 

“Hey,” came a sudden voice from down the hall. A demon was rushing towards them. “What are you lot doing down here? That door is strictly—Oh, Lord Beelzebub, I didn’t see you there, sir. Wait a minute. Security! Security!"

“Three,” said Aziraphale, panic rising in his voice, and then he was spinning, fragmenting, wrenching himself away from Beelzebub’s corporation and focusing all of his energy on the body held so carefully in Crowley’s arms. 

_You’re a mad bastard, Principality Aziraphale. The two of your deserve each other._

And then there was nothing but blackness.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale came awake incrementally. First, he was aware of sounds: the distant whistle of a teapot, the familiar tread of boots on a well-worn carpet. Smell came next: burnt toast, the faint smoky-pine fragrance of one particular demon. He focused on those comforts, because his whole body hurt.

He opened his eyes and found himself back in his bedroom in the small flat above the ice cream shop. It was disconcerting, because for a moment he’d expected to be back at the bookshop. The flats themselves were so similar, it was uncanny—the slight differences unsettling. Aziraphale sighed and pushed the soft duvet down around his waist.

He ached from where he’d been bound with the hellish rope—there were burns on his wrists and on his ankles, and the muscles of his back were sore. He could only imagine the state of his wings. His body, however, was clean, and he flushed to think of Crowley bathing him, though he knew he had probably only used a miracle.

“Crowley?”

Crowley appeared in the doorway in an instant, as though he had been stationed right outside the room and merely waiting for Aziraphale to call for him.

“Angel,” he said with relief in his voice. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Forty-three hours, twenty minu—er, two days, give or take.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Crowley sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed. He looked tired, but he was dressed in his typical, fashionable clothes, his copper hair artfully swept to one side. His fingers were restless, rubbing against his thighs as he started to speak. “Isn’t much to tell, really. We came through all right. You weren’t . . . you weren’t responding to me. At first I thought you might not have made it back, that you were still down there, but then you opened your eyes. You said my name. Then you were back out.” He gave Aziraphale a sad smile. “Miracled us here, cleaned you up. Fuck,” he scrubbed a hand over his head. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” said Aziraphale.

“Keep expecting them to come for us. Haven’t slept. Feel a little . . .” His leg jangled against the bed, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Crazy, if I’m being honest.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about Below. At least not now. Lord Beelzebub and I reached an understanding.”

Crowley’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Oh?”

“Sorry, can’t really tell you about it. I made a promise. Just, suffice it to say that they won’t be bothering us anymore.” He felt a twinge of remorse, wondering what would become of Beelzebub, but he pushed it out of his mind. He hadn’t had a choice, not if he wanted to save Crowley. Still, he knew he would think about Beelzebub’s memories for a long, long time.

“You were . . . pretty amazing down there.”

In spite of the pain in his shoulders, Aziraphale preened. “I was a bit, wasn’t I?”

“I had no fucking idea what to do. You were . . . well. You surprised me.”

Aziraphale thought he detected a faint flush on Crowley’s cheeks, but it was gone as soon as he’d perceived it.

Crowley was really jostling the bed now, his whole body practically vibrating with nerves. Aziraphale sat up with some difficulty and patted the pillow next to him. “My dear, please come and lie down. You need to rest.”

“Not sure I can.”

“I’m okay. We’re okay. We made it back in one piece. I’ll watch over you, as you have done for me.”

“But, angel, what if—”

“We can talk more when you wake up. Please, my dear. If not for yourself, then for me. I need you—” The words caught in Aziraphale’s throat. There were so many ways to finish that sentence, he couldn’t manage it. He simply swallowed and watched as Crowley hesitated for a moment longer, then kicked off his shoes and slowly crawled to the top of the bed. He lay down next to Aziraphale and looked up at him, not blinking.

“You’re really here. We’re really . . . us.”

Aziraphale nodded, unsure of how to respond. He simply held out his hand and was gratified when Crowley threaded their fingers together, then rested their hands on his chest, as though terrified of letting go even in his sleep.

While Crowley dozed, Aziraphale held his hand and fretted.

He felt strange in this bed, in this flat he had lived in, this flat that was his and yet was not, the life that had been his and yet had not. And he ached for Crowley, his dear Crowley, who had been more his in that life, as Rook, than he had ever been in this one. Crowley who, as Mr Rook, had kissed him and held him in the way Aziraphale had wanted for thousands of years. In the way that had never been possible until they both thought they were human.

What would it be like between them now? Would Crowley still want him in that way, or was that something that only Rook had wanted? 

He watched Crowley sleep, the regular rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes fluttered every so often, as though he was dreaming. He was so beautiful, Aziraphale’s heart clenched with loving him. How had he survived so long without seeing his face every day; how had he gone on with this piece of himself missing? 

Years had been stolen from them. Not very long in the context of their immortal lives, of course, but still a heavy sense of dread pressed down on Aziraphale’s chest when he thought about what might have happened had he not come for Crowley in Hell, what might have happened to them both if Aziraphale had lost his grace. Tears sprung to his eyes. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and Crowley murmured something in his sleep that sounded like “my love.”

He must have dozed again. When he woke, Crowley was awake as well, watching him with cautious smile. The light outside had changed; it was daybreak, or nearly so.

“I didn’t want to wake you. How do you feel now?”

“Better. I think.” Aziraphale rubbed his sore wrists. His back still ached, and he knew his wings would need tending to, as would Crowley’s. Whatever cording Beelzebub and Hastur had used to bind them had seriously damaged the feathers, and though they were not made of flesh, there was some sort of metaphysical trauma that would need a tender hand, and time. “Have you been awake for long?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was close, his head tilted up from where it rested on his pillow. He looked like he hadn’t slept as long as he needed, but he did look better.

“Not for long.”

They looked at one another. Aziraphale held his breath as Crowley moved infinitesimally closer. “I don’t think I’m going to let you out of my sight for a long while, angel. Hope that’s okay with you.”

“The feeling is quite mutual, I assure you.”

Crowley touched Aziraphale’s side, rubbing it gently through the fabric of his flannel pajamas. “I . . . my head is all muddled. Like I’ve been living in a dream, and this is the first time I’ve been awake in years.”

“I feel the same. I . . . I’m so glad you came back. That you found me. However in the world did you?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s eyes, looking for what, he wasn’t sure. What he saw reflected back at him was infinitely sweet.

“I’ve always been able to sense you. Guess that never changed, even if I didn’t remember.” Crowley swallowed. His eyes darted to Aziraphale’s lips, and yes, that subtle gesture told Aziraphale all he needed to know. How could he ever have doubted what that care and consideration had meant over all of their years together? Crowley had always found him, had always saved him when he needed saving. Crowley had always loved him.

“Angel, are you all right? You look . . .” Crowley blinked his golden eyes, his hand stilling where it was on the curve of Aziraphale’s hip.

“I love you. You do know that, don’t you? I don’t want to leave it unsaid for another moment. Because I suppose . . . we can’t be sure, can we, that we have more time? I took it for granted for so long. So long. I wasted it, squandered it. What a fool I was, my dearest.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why, if it’s true?”

Crowley looked troubled. His brows drew down, mouth pursed in a thin line. “Don’t get like that. All self-recriminating-y. Not when you’ve just told me the best thing I’ve ever heard, the most important thing you could possibly say.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Shut up. Tell me again. Tell me twice.”

“I love you. I love you.”

Aziraphale had seen Crowley smile before, but never like this, as though Aziraphale had hung the moon and stars—which he had not. Crowley had done that. Aziraphale had merely given a flaming sword away, and, apparently, his heart.

“I love you, angel,” Crowley said. “Come ‘ere.”

Aziraphale began to move, but a sharp ache made him cry out, like a blade to the shoulder. He had heard that humans sometimes felt phantom pain in limbs they no longer possessed, whether by accident or disease, and he wondered if it felt like this.

“What is it? Your wings?”

“Yes. I’m afraid they’ll need some care.”

“That was the one part of you I couldn’t miracle clean,” Crowley said ruefully. He helped Aziraphale to sit. “Let me.” A warm hand rubbed up and down Aziraphale’s back, and his shoulders tingled with anticipation.

“All right.” With a deep sigh, he called them forth and felt air stir around them. A faint odor of sulphur still clung to his feathers, and the black substance on them had dried and stuck them together. Aziraphale stretched them and winced as the stabbing pain returned, even worse than before. Many of the primary feathers were badly damaged.

“Shhh,” Crowley said, gentling his hand over the leading edge of his left wing. “I’ve got you.” Aziraphale trembled as he lay forward on the bed and allowed Crowley to move behind him, straddling his lower legs. His movements were steady and sure as he attended to the coverts, using both his touch and a series of miracles to clean away the hellish residue. Aziraphale felt his body start to relax, the pain ebbing away as Crowley worked. Every so often, through a half-opened eye, he caught a glimpse of fresh, shiny white feathers.

It had been many years since he had been groomed by someone else. In Heaven, angels did it as a matter of course, but living on Earth, Aziraphale had no one to ask, save Crowley, which would have been impossible.

Not so now.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, giving in to the sensation, allowing himself to drift. He felt like he was melting into the sheets, anchored by the firm, yet careful, attention of Crowley’s hands. It might have been an hour later, or maybe even two, when the pain was finally gone for good, and Crowley’s hands sought out the juncture between Aziraphale’s wings and his back, the most sensitive spot on his entire body. Crowley pressed gently, then more firmly, massaging the muscles, ruffling the scapulars as he did so. His lips followed after, grazing his spine, and Aziraphale shuddered and felt his Effort begin to harden in response. He was so calm and comfortable, and Crowley’s fingers and lips felt so incredibly good. With the pressure of Crowley’s weight against his bare calves, it was difficult not to move, not to grind against the bed to relieve the ache building in his groin.

“There,” Crowley finally said, his voice slightly hoarse. “Much better. Might have to have another go later, though, to be sure they’re good as new.”

Aziraphale let out an unintended whimper as Crowley gave his wings a final pet and slid off of him.

“They don’t still hurt, do they?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Ah, no.” He wasn’t sure whether he should roll over; in his tartan flannel, his arousal would be impossible to hide. He fluttered his wings and put them away. “Thank you, my dear. That was utterly wonderful. Perhaps a little . . . too wonderful.” He flushed and groped outwardly, intending to find his robe and make himself decent, but Crowley stopped him with both hands.

“Angel, you don’t need to hide yourself from me. Please, let me see.”

Crowley’s words made Aziraphale warm all over, and he felt his flush deepen as he did as Crowley asked. He lay on his back, looking up at Crowley, whose yellow eyes immediately tracked to the tented material between Aziraphale’s legs. 

“You’re not the only one who enjoyed that, by the way,” Crowley said, giving him a wry smile. Aziraphale glanced down to see Crowley straining against his trousers, the black fabric pulled taut, and his own Effort throbbed in sympathy. Without a thought, he reached out and traced the thick line with his finger, marveling at the hardness of it, his mouth watering with desire.

Crowley let out a shaky sigh. “Fuck. I want you.”

“But your wings. Don’t you want me to—”

“Kiss me.”

Even though it wasn’t really a surprise, Aziraphale thrilled to hear it. They had not exactly been themselves that first time, and there had been too many uncertainties between them, and in their own minds. Now, however, he knew Crowley was with him. His only love.

“What if I want to do more than that?”

Crowley’s pupils widened, and he licked his lips with a tongue that suddenly looked suspiciously forked. “Anything. Just touch me.”

“I will, my love. But first you must disrobe for me.”

“How fast?” 

“Oh, Crowley, surprise me.”

Crowley moved quickly, shedding his clothes like a skin, his eyes on Aziraphale all the while. Aziraphale’s heart thudded in his chest, his pulse rocketing with anticipation as Crowley bared himself. He was utterly gorgeous with his broad chest and narrow waist, the faint dusting of hair leading to his navel and below, where it thickened to frame the impressive hardness between his thighs. Aziraphale forgot to breathe, but he didn’t need to, so he just stared, mouth open, his whole body thrumming with need.

Finally naked, Crowley lowered himself down on top of Aziraphale and kissed him hungrily. There was still the flannel shirt between them, and Aziraphale vanished it.

They were finally bare together, and Aziraphale could hardly catalogue all the sensations vying for his attention. Crowley’s erection slid hotly against his own, and Crowley’s chest hair rasped against his nipples. Aziraphale, who was mostly smooth save for the thatch of hair at his groin, shivered at the contact and moaned when Crowley lowered his head to lick his nipples into little, taut peaks.

He plunged his fingers into Crowley’s lush hair, urging him on, and spread his legs to better accommodate Crowley between them. When he felt Crowley’s lips wrap around him, he arched off the bed. 

Crowley looked up at him from between his thighs, his mouth obscenely full. His tongue was doing things, getting him wet, slipping all around his hard length. Aziraphale had known of this pleasure for nearly as long as he’d been on Earth, but never having experienced it firsthand, he had not understood what all the fuss was about until now.

There was something exquisitely pleasurable not only in the sensation, but in the sight of one’s lover performing the action. Aziraphale pushed himself up onto his elbows to give himself a better vantage. Crowley’s lips were stretched, red and glistening, and his member was glistening, too. Aziraphale curled his toes into the blanket and tried not to thrust, though holding back was extremely difficult. He felt like fire was licking up his spine. He was burning up, aching and hot, and Crowley’s tongue wrapped around him, rubbing against his most sensitive places, stimulating all of the nerves to bursting.

Aziraphale bit his lip and wondered what sort of warning was required, whether Crowley wanted to see him through to his finish. A curl of lustful shame made him flush; he wanted to see Crowley swallow him down, wanted to mark him in that utterly human, animalistic way.

And just when he thought he was reaching his peak, Crowley pulled him closer by the hips, changing the angle and allowing him access to—oh! Aziraphale cried out as Crowley licked between his thighs, sucking on his tight sack and then even lower. He flicked his forked tongue out, tracing around the little, private opening. The intent in his eyes was clear. Aziraphale gasped. He had never felt anything like what Crowley was doing, licking against him, softening him and opening him with his tongue and dexterous fingers. Crowley’s eyes had gone completely yellow, his pupils contracted, and he hitched his hips against the bed. Aziraphale wondered what it would be like if their positions were reversed—and he wanted it. He wanted to bring Crowley the same unspeakable pleasure he was receiving. He wanted so many things, all of the things that he had been denied, that he had denied himself. He tossed his head from side to side as Crowley licked into him, filling him up with that wonderful tongue.

“Thissss okay, angel?” Crowley asked, sounding like it was difficult to form words.

Aziraphale nodded frantically. His hands scrabbled at the sheets as Crowley groaned and renewed his efforts with even more vigor, squeezing and kneading the plump globes of Aziraphale’s buttocks as he buried his face more deeply. There was a rhythm to it now, and when Crowley found a particular spot inside of him, Aziraphale’s member leaked onto his belly. He was throbbing, close to release without even being touched. He might have said the words out loud. Crowley looked up again, and the want in his eyes stole Aziraphale’s breath.

“Want to be inside you . . . can I?” Aziraphale reached for him, and Crowley reared up on his haunches, holding himself. “We need a little something more, I think. To ease the way.”

Aziraphale nodded and performed another minor miracle, because what was one more, really, in the scheme of things? He held out the little bottle to Crowley.

Crowley laughed. “Strawberry?”

“I—like—strawberries.” Something was wrong with Aziraphale’s voice. He couldn’t get words to form properly. Maybe because he’d stopped breathing. He inhaled on a shudder. “They’re nice.”

“Sure, when they’re actual fruit. But whatever, I’m not complaining.”

Crowley uncapped the top and squeezed a liberal amount into his hand. He coated himself with quick, efficient movements, and a sweet, faintly cloying smell filled the air.

“Okay. I see your point,” Aziraphale said, wrinkling his nose, but then Crowley was between his legs again, pushing in with a smooth, inexorable thrust. Aziraphale moaned as he was breached, as Crowley’s flesh joined with his, their bodies connecting in this most intimate of rituals. His body stretched easily to accommodate Crowley, and the sudden feeling of fullness erased everything else, made Aziraphale shudder and writhe to get more of Crowley inside.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to be right here.” Crowley’s hips hitched as he settled between Aziraphale’s parted thighs. He braced himself over Aziraphale and looked at him with such longing, it made Aziraphale’s chest ache. “You feel incredible.”

“Kiss me, my darling. Kiss me while you’re . . . while you’re having me.”

Crowley leaned down, and their mouths met, opening and moving together as Crowley began a slow rhythm. Aziraphale tasted himself on Crowley’s tongue, which was odd but not unpleasant. Crowley’s own scent was stronger, his arousal potent and musky. Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley’s waist instinctually, holding him as he moved. They were flush together, panting into each other’s mouths as Crowley swiveled his hips, each sensuous movement bringing them closer and closer still.

There was such a feeling of love in the room, his own and Crowley’s, Aziraphale almost couldn’t bear it. How could he have not recognised it before? How could he have ignored it? He felt ready to burst out of his skin, which would be most inconvenient. An errant tear leaked out of the corner of his eye, and he hoped Crowley wouldn’t notice and misinterpret it as pain, though it was pain, of a sort. He was painfully in love with Crowley, who was making love to him with such care, who was holding back his own pleasure for the sake of Aziraphale’s, who was saying his name like a prayer. It wasn’t worship. It was realer and messier than that, and so much lovelier. It was lovelier than anything Aziraphale could imagine.

Aziraphale was hard between their bellies, and through that delicious friction, his arousal began to build again, making him feel quite desperate. Crowley didn’t seem to be in any rush. He kissed Aziraphale languidly, rolling his hips.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice nearly a gasp. “You can give me more.”

Crowley laughed huskily. “You want more, angel?”

“Yes, please. I want you to feel good.”

“I do. Fuck, you have no idea. I could do this for hours.”

“And we will, we will, but now—I need—please—”

Crowley nearly growled, his eyes narrowing. “You want me to give you a proper ride?”

“Mmm—yes. That sounds nice.”

Crowley pulled out nearly all the way, then snapped his hips. Their skin slapped obscenely, and Aziraphale groaned. “Yes. Yes, like that, please.”

“Is this nice?” Crowley asked, drawing out the last word in a hiss. He reared back and pushed Aziraphale’s legs open further, gripping the soft flesh of his inner thighs with firm hands. He squeezed and, with more than a devilish glint in his eyes, pulled out until only the tip of him remained inside. Aziraphale wriggled and squeezed around him.

“Don’t tease me, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

Crowley filled him to the hilt, and then he did it again and again. His hips moved quickly, snapping back and forth and driving Aziraphale to the brink. There was a slightly feral quality to Crowley—he had never looked more like a demon—and it made Aziraphale hot all over, made his body flush and sweat and shudder with each delicious plunge. He was really getting it now, and he pushed back to meet Crowley thrust for thrust. The room went hazy as Aziraphale’s consciousness centered on the place they were joined, and on Crowley’s beloved face.

“Touch yourself,” Crowley said, hips stuttering. “I’m clossse.”

In a daze, Aziraphale reached between his legs and did as Crowley asked. He was so ready, he came almost instantly, covering his fist and stomach with his release, his body washed with the warmth of pleasure so acute and all-consuming, it almost hurt. He was distantly aware of Crowley letting out a sound that was half-moan, half-sob, and Aziraphale felt him pulse deep inside, felt himself be claimed.

After, they lay together, sticky and sated, with Crowley’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale was loath to move. He didn’t want to deal with the challenges they would face next, outside the safety of this bed, outside the circle of each other’s arms.

Crowley was trailing his long fingers up and down Aziraphale’s stomach, tickling him slightly. What a joy their bodies were, these human forms that fit so well together. It was a shame they had never before put them to good use.

“Well, I suppose we can consider that a success,” Crowley said.

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around Crowley more tightly.

“Probably should have done it before now.”

“Indeed.”

“Probably should do it again just to make up for lost time.” Crowley rolled one of Aziraphale’s nipples between his fingers, and Aziraphale felt a stirring in his groin.

“My dear,” he said, suddenly remembering. “What about your wings? Can I help you with them?”

Crowley stilled. “Ah. Yeah. Sure, if you want.”

“I want very much.”

Crowley’s wings were not quite as badly damaged as Aziraphale’s had been, but that didn’t mean he didn’t take the utmost care in grooming them. He sat, as Crowley had, behind him, straddling his legs, only this time they were both naked, which made their reactions even more obvious—and interesting.

If anything, Crowley was even more sensitive than Aziraphale. He let out soft little gasps as Aziraphale ran his hands over the damaged feathers, making them anew, healing the nicks and cuts. Aziraphale banished away the Hell-scum, and before long they shone prettily, blacker than the deepest obsidian. He couldn’t help but press his lips to them, just as Crowley had done, and was rewarded with Crowley shivering beneath him. When he’d finished and Crowley tucked them away, Crowley turned over to look up at him. “No one has done that for me. Since—ever.” He swallowed deeply.

“Oh, dearest.” 

They made love again, this time with hands and mouths alone. It didn’t last long, as both of them had become aroused from the grooming.

Crowley grinned over at him once they’d recovered. “One more time for good measure?”

“You’re insatiable,” Aziraphale replied, though he felt he would be very easily persuaded.

“Ah, we should probably get up anyway. There were two women here before, while you were sleeping. Demanded to see you. Think they thought you were being held hostage. They said they would be back in the morning, and if you’re not down there, they’ll probably send the police.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “That would be Louise and Odette.”

“Friends of yours?”

“I suppose you could say so, yes. Friends of his.” He meant Zachariah, of course, but Crowley knew that already.

“He was you, you know. You were him.”

“In some ways, I suppose. But not in the most fundamental ones. I . . . can’t help feeling angry about it. I don’t . . . I still don’t recall how it happened. Do you?” Aziraphale bussed a kiss against Crowley’s forehead, taking exquisite pleasure in being able to perform the simple gesture. He couldn’t see Crowley’s face, but he felt the frown against his chest.

“What does it matter now? We’re here, together again. Maybe even better because of it.”

“But if you’re not angry, aren’t you at all curious? It can’t have been Hell. Probably not Heaven either, although who can be sure if Beelzebub was telling the truth about having Heaven’s blessing. Do you think it was Adam, trying to protect us? Or . . . perhaps it was the Almighty herself?” He voice rose in pitch at the thought.

Crowley lifted his head. His expression was complicated, as though something was warring within him. He was keeping something from Aziraphale, that much was plain. “Better let it be, angel.”

“If you know, my dear, please tell me.”

“I don’t think It’s a good idea.” 

Aziraphale pushed up, dislodging Crowley from his warm, comfortable sprawl. “Please, if you care about me at all.”

The words worked as he’d intended. Crowley blinked in surprise, a flicker of hurt travelling over his face. Aziraphale felt more than a bit of a bastard, but he had to know the truth.

“You truly don’t remember?”

“No. Obviously.” Aziraphale sighed with frustration.

“Angel,” Crowley said gently. “You asked me to do this for us.”


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale sat brooding into his tea later that afternoon in the back room of his closed shop—or rather, Zachariah’s shop—replaying the conversation they’d had that morning. Crowley had gone out soon afterwards and hadn’t yet returned, and Aziraphale had begun to regret asking for some time to think. He hoped Crowley wouldn’t stay away much longer.

At first, it had been almost impossible to believe that he ever would have dreamed of such a scheme, or that Crowley would ever have gone along with it. But his still-fuzzy memory of the stretch of time between the averted Apocalypse and the night they’d parted was becoming more and more clear. The Ritz had been wonderful, the evening so full of possibilities, but then the following day, the elation had worn off, and Aziraphale’s mood had turned. He’d started worrying, Crowley had said, growing fearful that Above and Below were only pretending to leave them alone, and that Crowley in particular was in danger, after the horrors he’d witnessed in Hell. Those concerns only fed Crowley’s own, who feared for Aziraphale after the miscarriage of justice he’d witnessed in Heaven.

Aziraphale had been the one to propose it. They would need to separate: to blend into the human world for a while, stop using miracles, change their names and addresses. It was only supposed to be temporary, only until they could be more certain they were safe. It was only supposed to last until the new year. 

They had performed the miracle together, a memory modification with a twist of subliminal influencing, but somehow with their combined powers, so soon after their merge, it had worked too well. Crowley didn’t remember anything after that: he woke up sometime later as Anthony J Rook in a well-appointed flat in New York City. And Aziraphale had, of course, become Zachariah.

Yes, the plan had mostly worked, but there had been five years of confusion and longing he wouldn’t want to relive.

Bits and pieces of the night they’d made the pact came back; Aziraphale had been sure they were doing the right thing, but his deepest regret was not telling Crowley then that he loved him, not apologizing for all of the times he had pushed Crowley away. He was horrified at the thought that he might never have seen Crowley again, if he hadn’t come back to England. What if they’d never gotten their memories back at all?

He sipped his tea, which had long gone cold, and sighed, feeling morose and not liking it. A knock on the door summoned him to his feet, however, and he went to answer it, hoping it would be Crowley and disappointed when it was not.

“Oh, Mr Fell,” said Odette, leaning in and glancing around not-so-subtly. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but we’ve been concerned. Are you quite all right?”

Aziraphale, who felt not at all right, nodded in what he hoped was a suitably convincing manner. “I’m quite well. Just a bit of a head cold,” he amended, remembering he was supposed to be too ill to open his shop.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Louise said archly. Odette gave her a quelling look, but Aziraphale simply smiled. He didn’t care if they thought he’d been shagging Crowley, not one jot.

“We did notice that your young man—I suppose he’s not very young, is he, but he is certainly handsome—had closed his shop as well. Are the both of you ill?”

“We’re fine. Fine. Rook had a bit of water damage. Leaky pipe. He’s staying here until he can get it sorted.”

“Oh, then we won’t keep you,” said Louise, casting a beseeching look towards the ice cream cases. “Though, if it’s not too much trouble, I could murder a scoop of peach.”

“Not too much trouble at all.”

Aziraphale let them in, feeling slightly happier as they gave him the latest gossip. They were really dears for being so concerned for him, though he suspected they were also hoping to pick up a juicy tidbit or two to share as they made their rounds. 

They got one when Crowley screeched to a halt outside the shop in his Bentley, still shining black and beautiful as new.

Both women did a double take, and Aziraphale tried not to rush them out as Crowley bounded up the stairs and threw open the door. “Angel!” he exclaimed, his expression nearly one of divine rapture. “I’ve brought her home. Let’s go for a drive! Oh, hullo ladies.” He was practically dancing, wriggling his hips with joy. 

“I see that, my dear. What a wonderful sight,” Aziraphale said, his heart squeezing in his chest. Meanwhile, Odette and Louise were excusing themselves, murmuring excitedly at this unexpected, new development. _Did you hear him call him_ angel?

When they were alone once more, Aziraphale gave Crowley a tentative smile. “Wherever did you find your car?”

“Just where I left it. Front of my old flat. Miracle.” Crowley pulled down his sunglasses to the tip of his nose. He held out his hand. “Come for a ride?”

Aziraphale took the offered hand and gave it a squeeze. “All right. Let me just lock up.”

He hadn’t been outside all day. The sun was still high in the clear sky, the warm breeze ruffling his hair. He allowed Crowley to lead him to the passenger seat and usher him in but stopped short of letting Crowley fasten his seatbelt. “I’m not an invalid, Crowley. I’m just depressed.”

Once in the driver’s seat, Crowley turned to him with a wrinkled nose. “Can angels be depressed? I thought that was a human/demon only thing.”

“I can assure you that yes, they can.”

“Are you angry with me for telling you?”

“I am sorry that I strong-armed you into it, but no, of course not.” He reached across the space between them and put his hand on Crowley’s leg, giving it a tentative squeeze. “And you? Are you angry with me?”

“I’ve never been angry with you, not really. Not in six thousand years, so why start now?” Crowley smiled crookedly, hands flexing on the wheel.

That statement made Aziraphale’s eager heart swell in his chest, but he was in too self-recriminating of a mood to accept it as fact. “But I’ve been unkind to you. So many times. I told you I didn’t even like you—which wasn’t true. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but I wasn’t ready to face the depth of my feelings for you. Can you ever forgive me? And then—just when we could have been together as we both wanted . . . I’m sorry. I’m very sorry indeed.” He curled his hand into a fist and closed his eyes, fighting back the burning sensation. It wouldn’t do to cry, not when it was Crowley who he had hurt, Crowley who deserved these apologies. How arrogant he had been to offer Crowley his forgiveness and never to seek his own.

He felt a warm, long-fingered hand cover his clenched fist.

“Angel, look at me.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath and, when he was certain the tears wouldn’t spill, he opened his eyes. 

“You don’t need me to forgive you. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you need to forgive yourself. I . . . fuck it, I’m always gonna love you. That’s a given, okay?”

There was silence for a few moments as Aziraphale tried to conjure words to respond to such a generous gift. He found there were none, save two. “Thank you.” And then he thought of five more, one for each year they’d been apart. “I love you, my dear.” He didn’t think he’d ever tire of saying those five words.

Crowley’s expression softened. He slipped his sunglasses back on and adjusted the mirrors. “Now that’s sorted, where do you want to go?”

Aziraphale relaxed back into the leather seat. He kept his hand where it was, however, needing to feel Crowley’s solid, steady presence. “Anywhere. Perhaps away from the city.”

“Good idea. I think the car wants to stretch her legs.” The engine revved as though in response, but Aziraphale was surprised that the old, giddy fear he’d use to feel in such circumstances was completely absent. He trusted Crowley, completely.

“You’re planning on driving fast, aren’t you?”

“Oh, very.”

***

From London they took the A3 and went south, and in spite of Crowley’s assertion, he kept the speed reasonable enough so that Aziraphale could enjoy the scenery without tearing a hole in the leather. In a little over an hour and a half, they arrived at the coast and drove along a windy country road with beautiful views of grassy fields, steep chalky cliffs, and the sea.

“This is lovely,” Aziraphale said, as they pulled to the side and got out to walk. The wind blew Crowley’s hair back from his face, and, with his sharp nose, he seemed to be scenting the air. There was an almost-smile on his face, just a faint trace of upturned lips, which Aziraphale knew meant he was happy.

There was a small line of well-appointed cottages along the narrow road, and a young woman with a child smiled at them from where they playing in one of the front gardens. Each of the dwellings was compact, made of ancient earth and built to withstand the moisture and wind from the sea. Aziraphale had always loved the South Downs.

One of the cottages near the end of the lane, humbler than the rest, appeared to be unoccupied. The grass grew tall and the roof badly needed repair. One of the front windows was broken, but it was still quite charming. Aziraphale stood considering it while Crowley kicked up dirt from the road and, with his hands in his pockets, started ambling towards the path that led down to a pebble beach.

Aziraphale followed, miracling himself a pair of wellies as he did so. It wouldn’t do at all to get his brogues wet with seawater, and while he normally didn’t approve of creating his own clothing out of ether, as Crowley often did, this called for an exception. They didn’t pass anyone on the path, and down by the sea the beach was deserted. Waves crashed and rolled over the pebbles, and Crowley was humming quietly to himself, looking out over the sea. Though he was normally used to filling the silence with chatter, Aziraphale found himself quietly content. He slipped his hand into Crowley’s and squeezed, felt the answering squeeze in response, and he smiled.

They stood watching for a long time. Eventually, a man and a black Labrador retriever appeared further along the beach and started a game of fetch. The dog splashed into the sea after a bit of driftwood and emerged shaking its coat, circling its owner with the glee of triumph.

There was something comforting about the sea, especially to an immortal being. Perhaps it was because the sea was ancient, more ancient than even the land. It was in so many ways unknowable, ever-changing but also always the same. Aziraphale had stood on this very shore over a thousand years ago and watched the Normans arrive. The beach had not been much different then.

He was, however, much different. He had changed because of Crowley.

“I’m glad you brought us here,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you.”

“If you keep on thanking me, I’m gonna get a complex, angel.”

“Sorry. But I do think it was just what I needed. A bit of perspective, perhaps.”

Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and rubbed his arm. It was getting a bit chilly as the afternoon faded into evening.

“What shall we do now?” Aziraphale asked, and the question hung in the air with a weight he hadn’t quite intended.

“There’s probably somewhere we can stay nearby, if you don’t want to go back yet.”

“You mean an inn?” Aziraphale snuggled closer. He was grateful Crowley didn’t seem to want to pick up the heavier thread.

“I was thinking more like an Airbnb, but sure.” Crowley had pulled out his mobile with his free hand and was poking around on the internet. His fingers moved rapidly over the screen, and then he pocketed it again. “A quaint little room for two’s just become available. Let’s go get something to eat, angel.”

The sun set as they drove into town, and the sky was painted with deep orange and crimson. They dined at the pub and, after several pints of bitter and a shepherd’s pie that could have done with more seasoning, walked the rest of the way to the place Crowley had chosen, the Thistle & Rose. The homey space was warm and welcoming, and the owner, an Irishman named Sam with a faded accent, led them upstairs and down the hall to their room. They made small talk on the way, or rather, Aziraphale and Sam made small talk. Crowley grunted curtly.

“Here for a romantic holiday down from London, I presume? There’s no better place to forget your troubles. I hope you two gents have a relaxing stay. Ring if you need anything.”

“Yes, we will. Thank you, Sam. You’ve been most kind.” Aziraphale gave him his most winning smile. He was feeling rather lighter than he had all day.

Inside, there was a double bed decorated with a patchwork quilt, and as Aziraphale unbuttoned his coat and hung it on the hook near the door, Crowley kicked off his boots, miracled the curtains closed, and flung himself upon the mattress, letting out a groan of pleasure. He reached down and pulled his socks off too, and Aziraphale was treated to the sight of his slim, bony feet with their delicate high arches. The sunglasses were next, cast away onto the bedside table, and then Crowley unbuckled his belt and flung it onto the floor with one swift movement.

A little thrill ran up Aziraphale’s spine, though the scene was more domestic than illicit. It was perhaps because this was the first time they had intentionally checked into a room together, a room with only one bed, and from the way Crowley was eyeing him as he removed his own shoes—brogues again—and carefully undid the buttons of his vest, a room they would soon be making love in.

Over the years, many people had assumed they were a middle-aged couple, but until now those small passing comments had either been ignored or met with awkward dismissal. Sam had figured them lovers here for a romantic weekend, and indeed they were.

Clad only in shirt and trousers, Aziraphale joined Crowley on the bed and propped his head up on his hand, watching as Crowley turned to face him. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy from the beer they’d drunk.  
  
“Tired?” Aziraphale asked.

“Just comfortable.”

“Thank you for getting the room. I love it, though it’s certainly more to my taste than yours.”

Crowley shrugged. “Thought you’d like it. I like that you like it, so it works out.” Crowley leaned forward. His breath smelled faintly of hops and Aziraphale found himself moving closer, craving Crowley’s lips. They were soft, opening sweetly for him, and he tilted his head to get the best angle, thrilling at the touch, the slide of their tongues together. His desire, which for most of the day had been a banked fire, roared back to life. He pushed one hand through Crowley’s hair and held him so that he could be thoroughly kissed the way he deserved.

Crowley seemed content to let Aziraphale lead. He rolled onto his back, and Aziraphale quickly followed. He covered Crowley’s slimmer body with his own and was gratified to find Crowley just as hard and eager. He liked this position, liked the feel of Crowley arching under him, the subtle grind of their erections through layers of clothing. Crowley grabbed two handfuls of Aziraphale’s arse and squeezed, and Aziraphale let out a yelp he hoped wasn’t loud enough to be heard in the hall.

“G-god I love you. Love how soft you are. You wanna fuck me, angel?” Crowley whispered against his throat.

“Ah—yes. I do, very much.”

“Good. Want you to. Want to feel you inside me. F-fuck.” Crowley thrust up at a particularly delicious angle, and Aziraphale groaned. If they didn’t get their clothes off, it would be over too soon—and not in the desired way.

“I haven’t ever . . . I hope I can make it good for you.”

“It’ll be good, angel. It’ll be fucking fantastic.”

With that promise hanging in the air, they quickly divested themselves of their clothing and fell back together onto the bed, and Crowley welcomed Aziraphale between his rangy thighs. Aziraphale felt his member—his prick—sliding against the wet tip of Crowley’s. They were both leaking, slippery with excitement. Aziraphale moaned when he felt Crowley stroke them together. It was wonderful, if a bit messy, like so much of humanity.

A strange thought occurred to Aziraphale as he kissed Crowley and reached between their bodies to feel for his entrance, making him still.

“Aziraphale? You still with me?”

“Yes, my dear. Very much. I just had a thought.”

“Then we’re not doing this right.”

“Don’t jest, Crowley. I was . . . do you think it might have been better if we hadn’t remembered? If we had just stayed . . . human. Would it have been simpler?” He blinked down at Crowley, suddenly unsure.

Crowley’s kiss-bitten mouth quirked at the corner. His eyes were pure gold; there was something celestial in the way they appeared, like little half-moons split by a thin slice of darkness. “Simpler, maybe. Not better. Never better.” He brushed a finger against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I love you, my darling. You are so good to me.”

Crowley flushed, looking away. “Angel, let’s get on with it, shall we? Leave the feelings for after? I’m dying here.” He really was dreadfully hard—Aziraphale could feel the hot length of him twitch as it pressed firmly against his belly.

Without further ado, Aziraphale found the tight furl of skin and pressed the tip of one finger inside, feeling it flutter and tighten around him. It seemed incredible that he was supposed to fit himself inside that tiny passage, but then again Crowley had managed with him well enough, and it had felt wonderful.

He thought about what to use, and then, miraculously, his fingers were anointed with oil, luckily far from holy.

“I won’t hurt you, will I?” he asked, hardly able to speak as he pushed two fingers inside. Crowley was all molten heat around him, so soft and velvety. Aziraphale’s prick pulsed eagerly, but Crowley’s pleasure was at the forefront of his mind. He wanted to make this good in spite of his inexperience.

“You’re not gonna hurt me. Please.” Crowley wrapped his long legs around Aziraphale’s waist, canting his hips upwards, and with a shaking hand Aziraphale moved to position himself. The head of him breeched Crowley, and the pressure was so exquisite, Aziraphale had to bite his lip to stop himself from peaking. He watched Crowley carefully as he pushed inside, aware of all of the subtle changes in his demon’s—no, his lover’s—expression. There was pleasure and a hint of discomfort, desire and happiness, but above it all, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s love, as he had felt it the night before—the pure, true essence of it untainted.

When he was finally inside, his still hips flush against Crowley’s wriggling ones, he leaned down and kissed Crowley again. Crowley’s hands were on his back, pulling him in, urging him on, and he began a slow thrust.

“You can go harder,” Crowley said. “M’not gonna break.” Aziraphale started to move more quickly, keeping his pace measured but steady, and Crowley’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Fuck. Angel, you feel amazing.”

It was different to be on this end of things. Aziraphale liked this vantage, liked seeing Crowley bite his lip and arch his long neck when he hit a particularly sensitive spot. He especially liked how Crowley grabbed at his arse and slipped his fingers down to where they were joined, as though he couldn’t bear not to. Crowley was saying all sorts of delicious, inflaming things, asking to be taken, for Aziraphale to spill inside of him and fill him up.

Aziraphale’s rhythm became erratic. He tried to stave off his release, but Crowley clenched so sweetly around him, pulling him deeper, and then he pressed his wandering fingers inside Aziraphale. With a shout he hoped was mostly muffled by Crowley’s shoulder, he shuddered and started to come, aching and pouring himself into Crowley just as he’d asked, giving him everything. His whole mind cleared: the memories of Hell, the trials of the past few days, the anxiety he’d felt, all of it was gone, replaced by pure pleasure and delight in the being underneath him. His body felt light, his mind content. Vaguely, he realized Crowley was still holding him, still grinding his hips, and Aziraphale felt the tip of Crowley’s cock poking his stomach, his fist working the length.

“Just stay where you are, angel. I’m almost there.”

By miracle, Aziraphale stayed hard and pushed all of the way inside, like Crowley obviously wanted. Crowley was panting, staring up at his face, and Aziraphale’s heart felt like it had been inflated to a size his corporation could not contain. Whatever happened now, wherever their immortal lives took them, he would never again be without Crowley.

Crowley spilled seconds later, biting Aziraphale’s shoulder, his forked tongue soothing over the small mark as he pulled away with a sheepish smile. The warm wetness squelched between them, rapidly cooling, and Aziraphale allowed himself to soften and slip out. He vanished the mess and then pulled the covers up around their hips.

“Well,” he said. “I think I finally understand what all the fuss is about.”

“Mmm, wasn’t bad,” Crowley said, folding one arm behind his head. His hair was sticking up at all angles. He looked beautiful, and Aziraphale smiled at him.

“Surely you can do better than that, my dear.”

“Fishing for praise, are we, angel? All right: that was the best fuck of my life, so thanks. I love you.”

Aziraphale felt quite pleased as he snuggled closer. In spite of his slimness, Crowley’s chest made quite a delightful pillow. “You do say the nicest things.”

He must have been sated, because Crowley hardly made a grumble of complaint.

In the morning, once Crowley had slept and Aziraphale had finished the book he’d brought along for the drive, Aziraphale availed himself of the bubble bath while Crowley got breakfast. It was lovely to soak in the tub after the evening’s exertions. The lavender-lemon scent reminded him of his favourite sorbet, however, and he started thinking about his shop and the life he had lived for the past five years.

The bookshop, apparently, had been sold. Of course Aziraphale could miracle it back to the way it was should he wish, but he wasn’t sure that was the place for him anymore. He could picture running the sweets shop with Crowley in his store across the street, the both of them living in Aziraphale’s quaint flat and socializing with Louise and Odette on the weekend. But as nice a life as that might have been for Mr Fell and Mr Rook, it wasn’t the life for him and Crowley. That time was over.

“Angel,” Crowley called from the outer room. “Croissants!”

“Wonderful, my dear. I’m just finishing up in here.”

Crowley stood in the doorway, the light of the morning sun bright behind him. He pulled his glasses off and watched as Aziraphale climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around himself; all the while, Aziraphale was conscious of the gaze and made an effort to appear alluring, which perhaps was silly of him, but was also very gratifying, especially when Crowley approached him from behind and put his hands on Aziraphale’s hips. “Let me help you get dry.” His breath tickled the hairs on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck as he tugged at the towel.

“Ah—all right.”

Crowley knelt before him and lifted one of his legs, bracing it on his knee, and then proceeded to softly wipe up the water droplets clinging to his skin. He mostly used the towel but sometimes used his lips, which sent a jolt of pleasure through Aziraphale. The inside of his calf was particularly sensitive, and Crowley traced his fingers up and down the muscle, murmuring something in French that Aziraphale couldn’t understand. After doing the same with the other leg, Crowley moved on, paying particular attention to the curve of Aziraphale’s belly and his hips. By now, Aziraphale was hard again, and they both forgot about toweling off until they were sated and sticky once more. 

“Breakfast?” Crowley asked, grinning up at him as he licked the last of Aziraphale’s spend from his fingers. He was truly wicked.

“I’m famished.”

“I got chocolate and almond. Whichever you prefer.”

The croissants were delicious—buttery and flaky with just enough filling to be sweet and not too much to be cloying. Aziraphale finished the last of his and watched Crowley sip his black coffee, wondering if he was brave enough to broach the topic that had been on his mind all morning.

“My dear,” he began. “Do you think you should like to return to your shop?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “You fancy keeping yours?”

“I think not. I was wondering . . . there was that little place for sale we saw yesterday. The one down by the cliffs.”

“You want to move here?” Crowley arched an eyebrow.

Aziraphale flushed. “Just a thought. I . . . It might be nice to have a place to ourselves. To . . . see how we fit together, after all this time. And I don’t mean just the last five years.”

“I think we fit together quite nicely.” Crowley gave him a cheeky grin.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know, angel.” He hesitated, looking down at his partially eaten chocolate croissant, and pushed around a flaky crumb with his forefinger. “Well, why not. Can’t hurt to give it a go, can it? If we don’t like it, London will be there waiting.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his eyes welling up. “Really?”

“Really. In fact, it’s possible that someone might already have put in an offer. And it turns out my assistant is now the proud owner of a boutique clothing shop. As for yours, you can do what you like, but I think there are two pensioners who might happily run it in your absence.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, throwing himself into his lover’s arms. He didn’t care that he had spilled his tea or that Crowley’s chair lurched dangerously with his added weight. Crowley caught him and held him steady in his lap. “You really are an angel.”

“I was once. Now I’m just yours.”

The sun sparkled on the surface of the sea. The blue sky arched overhead in an unbroken ribbon of color. Stars twinkled in the unseen expanse beyond the sky. Below, an angel and a demon made plans. And somewhere farther away than that, the Almighty smiled and gave her blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please let us know with a comment. Don't forget to head over to [Taya's](https://tayasigerson.tumblr.com/) tumblr to leave her some love!


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